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THE 

REVIVAL  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY 


IN  THE 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

SELECTIONS  FROM 

WORDSWORTH,   COLERIDGE,   SHELLEY, 
KEATS   AND   BYRON 

/74/  3 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

ELINOR   M.   BUCKINGHAM,   A.B.   (RADCLIFFF.) 

INSTRUCTOR   IN   ENGLISH,    ADELPHI   COLLEGE 


THE  MORSE   COMPANY 

NEW   YORK  .-.  BOSTON 

1898 


COPYRIGHT.  189T,  BY 
ELINOR  M.  BUCKINGHAM 

Jdl  rights  reserved 


(8*.  TO. «. 

IN    MEMORY  OP  MANY   SUMMER    EVENINGS 
SPENT  WITH   THE  POETS 


PREFACE, 


This  volume  is  an  attempt  to  supply  adequate  and  con- 
venient means  for  a  systematic  study  of  early  Nineteenth 
Century  poetry.  The  authors  here  brought  together, 
though  widely  separated  in  some  respects,  do  nevertheless 
form  a  group  by  themselves  in  the  development  of  Eng- 
lish literature.  They  stand  as  exponents  of  that  renais- 
sance of  poetry  which  marks  our  century,  and  they 
should  be  studied  not  only  as  contrasted  with  each  other, 
but  as  marking  a  distinct  era. 

So  far  as  the  editor  is  aware,  no  good  opportunity  ex- 
ists for  carrying  on  this  work  in  high  schools.  One  of 
the  poets  is  not  represented  in  any  of  the  ordinary  collec- 
tions of  poems  now  in  use  as  text-books,  and  no  simple 
explanation  of  their  position  in  the  history  of  English 
poetry  has  been  published.  To  offer  such  an  explanation 
is  the  chief  purpose  of  the  Introduction  in  the  present 
volume,  which  aims  to  give  not  only  an  elementary,  but, 
at  least  for  high  schools,  an  adequate  conception  of  the 
reawakening  of  the  poetic  spirit  in  this  century. 

In  addition,  it  is  hoped  that  the  student  will  make 

diligent  use  of  the  lists  of  dates  and  of  biographical 

iii 


iv  PREFACE 

material,  which  will  throw  light  not  only  upon  the  five 
poets  as  individuals,  but  also  and  especially  upon  their 
mutual  influence  and  common  sources  of  inspiration. 
The  selection  of  poems  has  been  determined  in  part  by 
the  desire  to  rouse  this  personal  interest,  in  the  hope  that 
the  student  will  be  stimulated  to  read  more  fully  in  the 
authors'  works. 

The  reference  lists  are  far  from  exhaustive.  The  in- 
tention is  to  restrict  them  to  such  books  as  can  be  pro- 
cured in  a  good  school  or  town  library,  and  the  works 
selected  have  been  arranged,  in  general,  in  the  order  of 
importance.  Many  well-known  essays  have  been  omitted 
because  it  seemed  unwise  to  spend  time  upon  criticism 
which  is  unsympathetic,  or  which  has  been  superseded 
by  later  and  more  accurate  knowledge. 

It  is  earnestly  hoped  that  the  teacher  will  require  a 
much  fuller  general  acquaintance  with  the  poets  than  is 
to  be  obtained  from  these  selections.  Indeed,  the  book 
is  intended  to  suggest  lines  of  thought  and  of  work  in 
various  directions,  which  the  individual  instructor  can 
best  determine  for  his  own  classes.  No  book  is  well  used 
which  is  slavishly  used. 

The  editor  wishes  to  acknowledge  the  kindness  of  Pro- 
fessor Stockton  Axson  in  reading  proof,  and  of  Miss 
Sarah  AV.  Brooks  in  generously  giving  both  time  and 
thought  to  practical  details. 


INTRODUCTION. 

77^/3 

English  Poetry  is  generally  understood  to  have  died 
with  Milton  and  to  have  renewed  its  life  only  in  this 
century.  Not,  indeed,  that  no  poetry  was  written  during 
the  intervening  century,  but  the  current  was  neither  full 
nor  strong.  The  poetic  impulse,  like  every  other  faculty 
of  man,  ebbs  and  flows  through  the  ages,  and  there  seem 
to  have  been  three  periods  of  high  tide  in  English  poetry, 
separated  by  times  when  men  devoted  their  best  intellect 
to  other  concerns.  The  eighteenth  century  was  one  of 
those  times  of  low  tide. 

In  none  of  these  seasons  of  depression  did  men  cease  to 
write  verses,  nor  is  it  true  that  there  were  no  poets  of 
t*>       genuine  feeling  between  Chaucer  and  Shakspere,  or  be- 
^       twecn  Milton  and  Wordsworth;   but,  so  far  as  poetry  is 
\9      concerned,  both  these  ages  were  characterized  by  imita- 
tion of  great  men  who  had  gone  before,  by  care  for  the 
manner  and  form  of  poetry  rather  than  for  the  soul,  by 
feeble  attempts  of  a  few  men  to  introduce  a  more  healthy 
style. 

Each  age,  too,  was  followed  by  the  sudden  develop- 
ment of  a  free,  natural  poetry  of  the  heart.  In  the  reign 
of  Elizabeth  this  outburst  was  in  part  a  result  of  the 


VI  INTRODUCTION 

immense  widening  of  the  horizon  of  men's  thoughts  con- 
sequent upon  the  discoveries  beyond  seas,  and  the  life- 
and-death  struggle  with  Spain  for  national  importance 
and  religious  independence.  In  our  century,  the  im- 
pulse came  with  the  introduction  into  England  of  fresh 
trains  of  thought  from  the  German  philosophical  writers, 
and  also,  most  strongly,  with  the  new  interest  in  humanity 
roused  by  the  French  Revolution. 

By  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century,  the  fresh- 
ness of  poetry,  expressing  the  eagerness  of  human  living 
and  the  keen  enjoyment  of  the  senses,  had  already  faded; 
for  the  court  of  Charles  II.  there  could  be  no  return  to 
natural  simplicity.  The  same  terms  might  be  used,  but 
epigram  and  wit  took  the  place  of  genuine  song. 

Moreover,  most  men  who  wrote  possessed  only  medi- 
ocre intellects,  and,  notwithstanding  the  work  of  Dryden, 
their  verses  displayed  neither  wit  nor  form;  so  that  by 
the  time  Pope  had  grown  to  thinking  years,  he  was  right 
in  asserting  the  necessity  for  a  revolution  in  the  poetic 
world.  We  should  have  either  good  matter  or  good  man- 
ner, if  we  cannot  have  both.  Most  men  had  neither. 
Pope  perfected  the  latter.  His  style  is  generally 
acknowledged  to  be  faultless,  in  his  favorite  form,  the 
rhymed  couplet,  which  contains  some  witty  or  trenchant 
remark  in  every  pair  of  lines,  completes  the  idea  at  the 
end  of  the  line  and  allows  no  irregularities  of  metre.  In 
our  day  it  is  hardly  possible  to  conceive  how  popular  this 
form  became,  or  for  how  long  a  time  men  considered  it 
to  be  the  standard  by  which  to  judge  every  other  form. 
Goldsmith  wrote  his  two  best  poems  in  this  metre,  and 
Dr.  Johnson  lamented  the  offensive  irregularity  of  Mil- 
ton's blank  verse. 


ENGLISH  POETRY  PROM  MILTON  TO  WORDSWORTH      vii 

Aside  from  mere  form,  there  was  another  character- 
istic of  eighteenth  century  poetry.  Jt  was  the  fashion  to 
ignore  the  country,  and  to  live  only  in  and  for  the  town. 
This  was  indeed  natural,  when  literary  men  as  a  class  de- 
pended upon  some  rich  patron  for  the  reward  of  their 
labors,  or  when  courtiers  themselves  wrote  about  the  only 
life  they  knew.  Furthermore,  ';  from  the  deep  things  of 
the  soul,  from  men's  living  relations  to  the  external 
world,  educated  thought  seemed  to  turn  instinctively 
away;  "  and  "  to  exult  over  the  ignorant  past,  to  glory 
in  the  wonderful  present,  to  have  got  rid  of  all  prejudices, 
to  have  no  strong  beliefs  except  in  material  progress,  to 
be  tolerant  of  all  tendencies  but  fanaticism,  this  was  its 
highest  boast."  *  From  these  statements,  we  can  see  that 
poetry,  as  we  understand  it  now,  was  well  nigh  impos- 
sible. 

Xo  doubt  when  the  tide  has  again  turned,  when  a 
school  corresponding  in  materialism,  in  intellectuality, 
in  worship  of  form,  to  that  of  Pope  shall  have  come  again, 
the  age  will  enjoy  his  poetry  and  that  of  his  school  more 
generously  than  we  are  able  to  do. 

Even  before  Pope  died,  there  were  a  few  spirits  who  re- 
volted, perhaps  in  despair  of  rivalling  the  master,  per- 
haps wishing  for  novelty.  In  particular,  James  Thomson 
(1700-1748),  a  Scotchman,  who  had  grown  up  beyond 
the  sphere  of  Pope's  influence,  and  in  a  country  where 
simple  poetry  and  a  love  of  nature  had  never  died  away, 
ventured  upon  two  innovations.  In  the  first  place,  he 
chose  to  write  on  \vinter,  and  described  what  goes  on 
in  the  country  in  winter.  He  followed  it  by  descrip- 


1  J.  C.  Shairp,  "  Studies  in  Poetry  and  Philosophy,"  pp.  91,  92. 


Till  INTRODUCTION 

tions  of  the  other  seasons.     Here  is  one  of  his  simpler 
passages : 

"  Till,  in  the  western  sky,  the  downward  Sun 
Looks  out,  effulgent,  from  amid  the  flush 
Of  broken  clouds,  g-ay-shifting  to  his  beam. 
The  rapid  Radiance  instantaneous  strikes 
Th'  illumined  mountain,  through  the  forest  streams, 
Shakes  on  the  floods,  and  in  a  yellow  mist, 
Far  smoking  o'er  th'  interminable  plain. 
In  twinkling  myriads  lights  the  dewy  gems."  1 

This  shows  some  of  his  faults  as  well  as  some  merits, 
but  especially  it  brings  out  the  second  innovation  which 
he  dared  to  make,  the  substitution  of  blank  verse  for  the 
rhymed  couplet.  There  is  hardly  a  line  in  which  the 
sense  is  not  closely  connected  with  the  next.  It  is  dif- 
ferent enough  from 

"  Then  flash'd  the  living  lightning  from  her  eyes, 
And  screams  of  horror  rend  the  affrighted  skies. 
Not  louder  shrieks  to  pitying  heav'n  are  cast, 
When  husbands,  or  when  lapdogs  breathe  their  last."  2 

Thomson  was  not  strong  enough  to  break  altogether 
with  the  old  style.  He  made  use  of  such  hackneyed 
phrases  as  "effulgent  "  and  "  dewy  gems,"  and  he  was 
not  above  employing  the  adjective  form  "  instantane- 
ous "  when  he  needed  an  adverb.  In  common  with  other 
poets  of  his  century,  also,  he  used  nature  either  solely  to 
fill  in  a  background,  or  to  make  a  pretty  picture  in  and  for 
itself.  He  never  showed  nature  as  reacting  upon  man.  * 
A  sense  of  the  close  communion  between  man  and  nature 
is  the  distinguishing  mark  of  Wordsworth's  poetry,  and, 

1  "The  Seasons,"  Spring,  lines  18IJ-1M. 
"Pope,  "  The  Itape  of  the  Lock,"  lines  155-158. 


ENGLISH  POETRY  FROM  MILTON  TO  WORDSWORTH       ix 

in  varying  degrees,  of  the  poetry  of  this  whole  century, 
but  few  men  in  the  eighteenth  century  thought  of  her 
as  anything  more  than  an  element  outside  of  man, — to  be 
enjoyed  externally  and  to  be  described  sympathetically, 
but  yet  an  entirely  distinct  and  merely  physical  creation. 
Slightly  later  than  Thomson,  Collins  (1721-1759),  in 
his  short  life,  evinced  a  truer  touch  in  his  descriptions  of 
nature  than  the  poets  who  had  gone  before.  Though 
brought  up  in  the  city,  he  loved  the  country,  and  unlike 
Thomson  freed  himself  from  the  conventional  poetic  dic- 
tion which  with  the  elder  poet  often  served  to  hide  really 
original  thoughts. 

"  Or  where  the  beetle  winds 
His  small  but  sullen  horn, 
As  oft  he  rises  midst  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  born  in  heedless  hum," 

is  a  homely  bit  of  description,  but  close  to  nature,  and 
wonderfully  suggestive  of  the  spell  which  evening  casts 
over  the  open  moor.  Again,  in  the  same  ode,  "  To 
Evening,"  a  few  words  express  the  feeling  of  nightfall: 

"  Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 
The  gradual  dusky  veil." 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  century  Cowper  (1731-1800) 
continued  the  development  of  nature  poetry  and  the 
practice  of  writing  blank  verse.  To-day  we  can  hardly 
understand  the  popularity  of  his  poetry  during  his  life- 
time. Cowper  was  an  over-excitable  lawyer's  clerk, 
who  had  several  times  fallen  a  prey  to  insanity,  had 
been  forced  to  give  up  his  profession,  and  had  found  a 
shelter  from  the  disturbing  tumult  of  the  world,  with  his 
friend,  Mrs.  Tlnwin.  He  was  a  somewhat  sadlv  contem- 


X  INTRODUCTION 

plative  man,  deeply  tinged  with  a  religious  sense  of  his 
personal  guilt  arid  necessary  damnation  in  the  future 
world.  This  terrible  belief  brought  about,  or  at  least  ac- 
companied, his  various  fits  of  insanity.  During  his  calm 
periods,  when  he  could  feel  an  interest  in  the  life  about 
him,  he  began  writing  poetry  as  a  diversion,  to  distract 
his  thoughts,  and,  in  addition,  as  a  means  of  teaching  re- 
ligious truth.  He  was  fond  of  out-door  life,  of  meditative 
winter  morning  walks,  and  he  was  a  close  observer  of  the 
landscape,  the  flowers,  the  trailing  vines  about  him.  He 
described  them  lovingly,  for  their  own  sake,  but  it  is  obvi- 
ous that  a  man  who  consciously  turns  to  nature  and  po- 
etry as  a  relief  from  oppressive  gloom,  and  who  thus  by 
accident  discovers  himself  to  be  a  poet,  can  hardly  have 
the  strong  inspiration  which  effects  reform.  He  was  one 
of  those  precursors  who  herald  a  coming  revolution. 
Only  now  and  then  did  he  rise  to  the  real  passion  of 
poetry  when,  in  the  terror  and  anguish  of  his  own  soul, 
he  wrote  from  the  depths  of  his  nature. 

Undoubtedly  the  most  genuine  English  poet  of  the 
eighteenth  century  was  Thomas  Gray  (1716-1771). 
Gray  was,  however,  in  a  sense  hampered  by  his  acquire- 
ments. He  was  a  student,  "  perhaps  the  most  learned 
man  in  Europe,"  and  he  saw  in  preceding  literature  so 
much  beauty  that  he  would  fain  reproduce  it.  He  was 
classic  in  a  different  sense  from  Pope,  for  he  went  back  to 
Greek  as  well  as  to  French  literature;  he  was  versed  also 
in  Xorse  and  in  Welsh  poetry,  and  everything  he  wrote 
showed  not  only  the  form  but  the  spirit  of  the  works  he 
loved.  It  is  true  that  the  inherent  quality  of  the  old 
writers  was  much  the  same  as  that  of  the  Nineteenth 
Century  renaissance,  and  Gray  himself  had  more  of  the 


ENGLISH  POETRY  FROM  MILTON  TO  WORDSWORTH      xi 

modern  attitude  of  mind  than  any  other  poet  of  his  time. 
Consequently  we  have,  scattered  through  his  poetry,  such 
indications  of  the  dependence  of  man  upon  nature  as 

"  The  meanest  flowret  of  the  vale, 
The  simplest  note  that  swells  the  gale, 
The  common  sun,  the  air,  the  skies, 
To  him  are  opening1  Paradise." 

Nevertheless,  the  whole  body  of  his  poetry  is  so  small 
that  these  passages  are  few,  and  made  little  impression 
upon  his  generation.  To  break  the  chains  of  evil  custom, 
it  needed  a  man  with  less  reverence  for  the  past,  and  more 
abounding  confidence  in  himself  and  the  future. 

The  doggerel  that  was  still  written  by  men  whose  po- 
etic instincts  were  not  so  true  as  those  of  Gray,  need  only 
be  read  to  be  condemned.  Compare,  for  virility,  Dr. 
Johnson's 

"  Turn  on  the  Ant  thy  heedless  eyes, 

Observe  her  labours,  Sluggard,  and  be  wise;  "  etc. 

with  the  original,  "  Go  to  the  ant,  thou  sluggard,  con- 
sider her  ways  and  be  wise."  As  for  subject,  "  the  idea 
of  writing  a  poem  about  sheep  or  daisies  seemed  to  the 
magnificent  men  of  the  Pope  and  Johnson  era  to  indi- 
cate some  incipient  lunacy."  1  As  late  as  1800,  Charles 
Lamb  wrote  of  the  versifiers,  "  Some  of  them  are  idola- 
ters and  worship  the  moon.  Others  deify  qualities,  as 
Love,  Friendship,  Sensibility,  or  bare  accidents,  as  Soli- 
tude. I  have  been  able  to  discover  but  few  imagcx  in 
their  temples,  which,  like  the  caves  of  Delphos  of  old,  are 
famous  for  giving  echoes.  They  impute  a  religious  im- 


'Wm.  Knight,  "Studies  in  Philosophy  and  Literature,"  p.  300. 


in  INTRODUCTION 

portance  to  the  letter  O,  whether  because  by  its  round- 
ness it  is  thought  to  typify  the  moon,  their  principal  god- 
dess, or  for  its  analogies  to  their  own  labors,  all  ending 
where  they  began,  or  for  whatever  high  and  mystical 
reference,  I  have  never  been  able  to  discover." 

The  poetry  of  Burns  (1759-1796),  which  shows  an  in- 
timate love  of  nature,  lies  properly  outside  the  develop- 
ment of  English  poetry.  His  typical  work,  his  poetry 
of  the  field  and  the  moor,  is  essentially  of  Scottish 
growth,  comparatively  uninfluenced  by  English  verse, 
and  not  in  any  true  sense  reflecting  the  temper  of  Eng- 
lish poets.  It  had  a  profound  influence  upon  Words- 
worth,  but  it  could  not  attain  to  the  wide  popularity  of 
"  The  Seasons  "  or  "  The  Elegy  in  a  Country  Church- 
yard," partly  because,  as  the  Monthly  Review  said,  it  \vas 
"  composed  in  the  Scottish  dialect,  which  contains  many 
words  that  are  altogether  unknown  to  an  English  reader," 
and  even  more  because  the  English  mind  was  so  pro- 
vincial as  not  to  understand  or  take  interest  in  "  modes 
of  life,  opinions,  and  ideas  of  the  people  in  a  remote  cor- 
ner of  the  country." 

There  were,  however,  two  tendencies  in  literature, 
which  were  gradually  making  themselves  felt.  A  taste 
for  romance  was  being  fed — and  vitiated — by  such  novels 
as  "  The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho."  A  perception  that  nat- 
ure is  something  different  from  the  prevailing  picture 
of  her  drawn  by  the  poets,  was  indicated  among 
others  by  Crabbe,  a  close  student,  who  painted  her  with 
all  the  minuteness  of  diagnosis  and  all  the  truth  of  scien- 
tific observation. 

Tn  other  directions,  also,  men's  ideas  were  being  quick- 
ened and  stimulated.  In  politics  the  American  Revolu- 


EARLY  TRAINING  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  COLERIDGE      xiii 

tion  had  roused  real  passions  and  great  energies;  among 
the  nations,  England  was  assuming  the  right  of  the  most 
powerful  in  India,  and  the  stories  of  the  wealth  of  the 
East  were  as  intoxicating  as  had  ever  been  the  dreams  of 
El  Dorado  in  Elizabeth's  time;  in  philosophy  the  new 
German  metaphysics  was  becoming  known  in  England 
and  undermining  the  materialistic,  utilitarian  system  of 
Locke. 

Altogether,  the  nation  was  beginning  to  wake  from 
the  lethargy  of  imagination  which  had  given  scope  only 
for  a  hard,  practical,  worldly  tone  of  thought,  when  it 
was  startled  into  vivid  life  and  consciousness  by  the 
French  Revolution.  Immediately  there  was  a  vital  in- 
terest in  liberty,  equality,  fraternity;  there  came  that 
quick  interchange  of  emotion,  that  swift  tide  of  stren- 
uous feelings  in  which  virile  poetry  is  born.  Words- 
worth on  his  travels,  and  Coleridge  still  at  college,  both 
caught  the  enthusiasm.  One  must  read  such  outbursts 
as  Coleridge's  sonnets  of  1794  to  appreciate  how  madly 
passionate  was  the  tension. 


The  two  men  did  not  meet  during  their  college  days. 
Wordsworth  \vas  just  leaving  Cambridge  when  Cole- 
ridge went  up.  As  early  as  1794,  during  the  eventful 
year  when  Coleridge  finally  quitted  the  University,  he 
became  acquainted  with  Wordsworth's  "  Descriptive 
Sketches,"  and  was  struck  by  their  originality;  but  the 
two  did  not  become  personally  acquainted  till  1797. 
Coleridge  was  then  living  with  his  wife  in  Xether  Stowey, 
Somersetshire,  while  Wordsworth  with  his  sister  was  not 
very  far  away,  at  Racedown.  They  met,  and  Wordsworth 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

was  so  impressed  with  Coleridge's  personality  that  he 
moved  to  Alfoxden  to  be  near  his  new  friend.  The  re- 
sult was  the  "  Lyrical  Ballads,"  and  the  evolution  of 
Wordsworth's  theory  of  poetry,  which  might  very  prob- 
ably have  taken  a  different  form  but  for  the  influence  of 
Coleridge.  Though  the  famous  preface  to  the  "  Lyrical 
Ballads  "  goes  by  the  name  of  Wordsworth,  Coleridge 
wrote  some  years  later  that  it  was  as  much  his  work  as 
his  friend's,  being  in  fact  the  result  of  their  walks  and 
talks  together,  lie  added  that  he  did  not  assent  to  all 
Wordsworth  said  there,  and  intended  to  study  into  the 
subject  to  discover  the  principles  on  which  he  disagreed. 
To  all  appearances,  the  men  were  totally  different,  as 
well  in  body  as  in  mind.  Wordsworth  was  long  and  spare 
of  limb,  somewhat  stern  of  countenance,  reserved  and 
shy;  there  -was  ascertain  awkwardness  about  him,  both 
physical  and  mental.  Though  of  a  deeply  poetic  and  im- 
passioned nature,  he  yet  possessed  a  mind  and  conscience 
which  led  hinflo  restrain  himself,  to  keep  back  his  emo- 
tions till  he  had  tested  them,  to  reflect  before  he  wrote 
or  acted. 

Brought  up  among  the  Cumberland  mountains,  where 
clie  had  been  allowed  to  follow  pretty  much  his  own  way 
in  reading  nature  rather  than  books,  in  playing  games 
or  rowing  on  the  lake,  he  had  grown  up  full  of  the  sights 
and  sounds  of  the  country.  The  impression  loft  upon  his 
mind  by  the  hill  "  statesmen  "  also  tinged  the  character 
of  his  thoughts.  These  men  really  were  what  he  after- 
wards imagined  all  unsophisticated  men  to  be — self-re- 
specting, upright,  simple  natures,  with  a  certain  elevation 
of  character  caused  by  their  independence,  their  com- 
parative isolation,  and  the  silent  influences  of  sky  and 


EARLY  TRAINING  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  COLERIDGE        xv 

mountain.  While  Wordsworth  was  growing  up  among 
them,  he  reflected  little  either  upon  them  or  upon  the 
country  about  them,  but  the  total  impression  they  made 
upon  his  mind  caused  him  in  later  years  to  write  very 
differently  from  the  ordinary  observer  of  ordinary  coun- 
try people. 

When,  during  his  residence  at  Cambridge,  the  French 
Revolution  broke  out,  Wordsworth  began  to  be  absorbed 
in  men  and  affairs.  After  he  left  college,  he  travelled 
in  France  and  wished  that  he  might  aid  the  revolutionary 
party  to  adopt  a  wiser  course.  When  he  returned  to  Eng- 
land, the  French  still,  as  he  felt,  made  mistake  after  mis- 
take. They  showed  themselves  more  and  more  to  be 
under  the  control  of  passion  instead  of  right  reason.  Yet 
all  Wordsworth's  sympathies  were  called  out  by  the 
events  which  were  happening  across  the  Channel,  and  he 
went  on  hoping  that  the  good  sense  of  the  people  would 
manifest  itself.  At  last,  in  1708,  when  King  Louis  was 
beheaded  and  France  declared  war  upon  the  nations,  the 
shock  of  disappointment  to  high  hopes  threw  him  into  a 
state  of  doubt  and  distrust  which  was  torture  to  a  mind 
like  his.  He  was  of  too  intense  a  nature  to  take  any  hap- 
piness or  any  trouble  lightly,  and  the  struggle  with  him- 
self which  ensued  left  its  mark  on  his  temperament. 

It  is  generally  said  that  the  suffering  of  this  period  was 
the  sharpest  trial  through  which  Wordsworth  ever  passed, 
and  also  that  Dorothy  Wordsworth  by  bringing  him  back 
to  the  love  of  nature,  helped  him  to  greater  sanity  in 
his  whole  outlook  upon  the  world.  All  honor  to  his  sis- 
ter, but  it  may  be  that  enough  stress  has  not  been  laid 
upon  his  own  strength  of  character.  Wordsworth  con- 
quered himself.  The  fight  was  a  stubborn  one,  and  when 


XVI  INTRODUCTION 

his  sterner,  self -mastering  will  gained  the  victory  over  the 
softer,  emotional  spirit  which  would  have  laughed  and 
cried  with  greater  readiness,  and  which  might  have  been 
more  beloved  by  the  world  because  of  its  very  weakness, 
he  both  gained  and  lost  by  the  conquest.  It  rooted  in  his 
nature  habits  which  afterwards  showed  themselves  in 
austerity  of  temperament  and  obstinacy  against  criticism, 
as  well  as  in  a  command  over  his  feelings  which  has  de- 
ceived the  world  into  thinking  that  he  had  few  or  insig- 
nificant sorrows.  It  also  strengthened  an  inherent  conser- 
vatism in  his  nature,  which  made  him  fearful  of  reforms, 
and  too  early  deadened  in  him  the  creative  power. 

These  later  developments,  however,  did  not  show 
themselves  at  once.  For  the  present,  he  was  living  with 
his  sister,  enjoying  the  country,  and  making  tentative 
efforts  at  composition. 

Coleridge,  much  weaker  of  will  and  more  wayward 
in  temperament,  had  undergone  very  different  training. 
Though  he  had  lived  for  the  first  eight  years  of  his  life 
in  the  country  in  pleasant  Devonshire,  he  had  really 
spent  his  boyhood  in  the  city,  among  the  crowd  of  seven 
hundred  boys  at  Christ's  Hospital,  surrounded  by  the 
busy  thoroughfares  of  London.  His  teacher,  Dr.  Boyer, 
was  a  severe  but  excellent  critic  of  literature.  Coleridge 
himself  said  that  Boyer  taught  him  to  prefer  Demosthe- 
nes to  Cicero,  Homer  to  Virgil,  \rirgil  to  Ovid,  and  in  the 
school  compositions  never  allowed  a  metaphor  to  stand 
unsupported  by  sound  sense.  Such  training  suited  Cole- 
ridge's naturally  reflective  mind,  and  helped  to  form  that 
wonderful  critical  judgment  which  he  afterwards  dis- 
played. Unlike  Wordsworth,  who  spent  half  the  time  in 
play  in  the  country,  Coleridge,  during  these  school  days, 


EARLY  TRAINING  OF  WORDSWORTH  AND  COLERIDGE 

read  all  the  books  he  could  find,  devoured  whole  libraries, 
and  was  fond  of  button-holing  any  chance  acquaintance 
to  discuss  metaphysics. 

Being  a  brilliant  pupil,  he  was  appointed  by  Christ's 
Hospital  to  an  exhibition  at  Jesus  College,  Cambridge, 
where  he  would  have  special  opportunities  to  study  for 
the  ministry. 

Alas!  his  character  was  anything  but  ministerial.  His 
letters  during  this  college  period  are  a  sad  mixture  of 
light-heartedness  and  despondency,  bounding  spirits  and 
miserable  ill-health,  industry  so  long  as  his  friend  Mid- 
dleton  remained  in  Cambridge,  idling  and  running  into 
debt  when  his  senior  was  gone.  It  is  impossible  not  to 
love  and  also  to  fear  for  this  high-strung  boy.  In  one 
letter,  in  good  spirits,  he  winds  up,  "  Without  a  swan- 
skin waistcoat  what  is  man?  I  have  got  a  swanskin  waist- 
coat" ;  in  another  he  is  taking  ether  or  laudanum  to 
quiet  pain. 

The  account  of  the  year  1794  reads  like  a  sensational 
novel,  for  the  rapidity  of  its  occurrences,  and  their  re- 
action upon  him.  Falling  into  debt  and  perhaps  despair- 
ing in  love,  he  ran  away  to  enlist  in  a  company  of  dra- 
goons, but  was  so  homesick  that  in  less  than  two  months 
he  made  himself  known  to  his  family,  and  in  letters  of 
the  humblest  self-abasement  accepted  his  brothers'  good 
offices  in  procuring  a  discharge.  After  a  short  time  back 
in  Cambridge,  he  visited  a  friend  in  Oxford,  was  intro- 
duced to  Southey,  and  with  him  hatched  the  wild  scheme 
of  "  Pantisocracy,"  by  which  a  few  congenial  spirits  were 
to  go  out  to  America,  live  in  perfect  equality  by  the  toil 
of  their  hands,  possess  every  thing  in  common,  and  im- 
prove their  minds  by  conversation  and  reading.  In  Sep- 


INTRODUCTION 

tember,  in  the  midst  of  this  scheme,  he  suddenly  engaged 
himself  to  his  future  wife,  Sara  Fricker.  In  October  he 
was  writing  a  frenzied  letter  to  Southey  about  Mary 
Evans,  his  friend  in  London.  "  I  loved  her,  Southey, 
almost  to  madness,"  he  says.  "  Her  image  was  never  ab- 
sent from  me  for  three  years,  for  more  than  three  years. 
.  .  .  I  have  restored  my  affections  to  her  whom  I  do 
not  love,  but  whom  by  every  tie  of  reason  and  honour  I 
ought  to  love."  He  even  made  a  final  appeal  in  Decem- 
ber to  know  if  Mary  Evans  really  loved  another  man. 
Then  Southey  carried  him  back  to  Bath  and  Miss  Fricker. 
All  this  time  he  was  writing  sonnets  to  eminent  men,  and 
showing  how  ardent,  if  ill-considered,  an  interest  he  felt 
in  popular  affairs. 

This  year  was  the  turning-point,  in  his  career,  just  as 
the  same  time  was  moulding  Wordsworth.  Unfortu- 
nately, in  the  case  of  Coleridge,  the  effect  was  wholly  dis- 
astrous. AVhatever  hand  Southey  had  in  his  engagement 
to  Miss  Fricker, — and  Coleridge  himself  afterwards  be- 
lieved that  he  had  given  up  Mary  Evans  solely  through 
his  sense  of  duty  as  Southey  presented  it, — it  is  certainly 
true  that  Southey  inflamed  his  already  heated  imagina- 
tion with  the  scheme  of  Pantisocracy.  Perhaps,  if  he  had 
never  met  Southey  or  Miss  Fricker;  if  for  the  next  few 
years  his  mind  had  not  been  kept  in  a  perpetual  ferment 
in  consequence  of  Southey's  gradual  defection  from  the 
American  plan;  if  he  could  have  married  Mary  Evans, 
and  been  more  sure  of  his  friends,  lie  might  have  enjoyed 
the  quiet,  loving  sympathy  which  he  above  all  men  need- 
ed, and  might  have  been  strengthened  by  happiness 
to  greater  exertion  of  will  in  overcoming  his  faults  of 
character. 


GENERAL  ATTITUDE  TOWARD  NATURE      xix 

As  it  was,  the  year  was  the  most  tumultuous  of  his  life 
and  only  increased  his  flightiness.  lie  married,  it  is  true, 
in  October,  17!)5,  and  wrote  not  long  after,  "  1  love,  1  am 
beloved,  and  I  am  happy."  ki  The  Eolian  Harp  "  shows 
how  peaceful  his  mind  could  be.  He  enjoyed  something 
of  love  and  the  consciousness  of  love  for  a  few  years,  and 
in  1797  the  most  lasting  happiness  of  his  life  came  to  him 
in  the  friendship  of  Wordsworth. 

Walking  together  over  the  Quantock  Hills,  these  two 
young  men  of  twenty-five  and  twenty-seven  years  dis- 
cussed the  faults  of  the  prevailing  mode  of  poetry,  and 
decided  that  the  diction  ought  to  be  simplified,  while  new 
thoughts  and  images  needed  to  be  introduced. 

Wordsworth  wrote  in  his  preface  to  the  u  Lyrical  Bal- 
lads "  that,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  not  a  single  new 
image  of  external  nature  had  been  presented  from  the 
publication  of  "  Paradise  Lost  "  to  that  of  "  The  Sea- 
sons." He  might  almost  have  added  to  his  own  time. 
Thomson,  fowper,  and  a  few  others  were  exceptions  not 
followed  by  poets  in  general. 


It  must  be  acknowledged  that  English  poets  had  been 
terribly  hampered  by  the  body  of  literature  and  of  liter- 
ary men  close  about  them.  It  would  have  required  a 
superhuman  genius  to  cast  off  entirely  the  tricks  and 
mannerisms  not  only  of  style  but  of  thought  in  which 
they  had  been  brought  up.  Thomson  had  been  compara- 
tively free  from  them,  but  he  was  a  Scotchman,  and  did 
not  come  into  the  literary  world  of  London  till  he  had 
reached  manhood.  Oowper  never  belonged  to  the  lit- 
erary set.  In  1782  he  wrote,  "  I  have  not  read  more 


XX  INTRODUCTION 

than  one  English  poet  for  more  than  twenty  years." 
Burns  was  the  only  true,  fresh  singer  in  these  evil  days, 
and  he,  too,  was  a  Scotchman,  familiar  with  the  less  con- 
ventional, more  nature-loving  poetry  which,  in  Scotland, 
had  never  died.  It  is  to  be  doubted  whether  Wordsworth 
himself,  if  educated  in  the  artificial  atmosphere  of  Lon- 
don, instead  of  on  the  wild  hills  of  Cumberland,  would 
have  struck  the  note  of  simplicity  which  is  associated 
with  his  name. 

It  was  not  only  that  men  wrote  in  a  stilted  fashion,  or 
that  when  Pope,  for  instance,  settled  down  in  his  easy 
chair  and  described  the  moon  as  silvering  the  slope  be- 
hind which  she  rose,  the  picture  was  accepted  as  beauti- 
ful without  questioning  its  accuracy;  it  was  not  that  they 
did  not  see  nature  rightly,  but  that  they  did  not  regard 
her  at  all.  So  remarkable  a  man  as  Hazlitt  took  a  walk 
through  Llangollen  Valley  "  by  way  of  initiating  him- 
self in  the  mysteries  of  natural  scenery,"  before  he  visited 
Coleridge  in  1798.  At  that  time  he  was  twenty  years 
old,  an  age  when,  nowadays,  we  expect  a  man  to  be  par- 
ticularly susceptible  to  the  picturesque,  to  enjoy  con- 
sciously a  fine  sunset  or  a  green  forest  road.  But,  that 
we  are  trained  in  a  habit  of  sensitiveness  to  the  beautiful 
in  natural  scenery,  is  partly  owing  to  the  influence  of 
Wordsworth's  poetry,  and  to  the  long  train  of  successors 
who  have  taken  their  inspiration  directly  or  indirectly 
from  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge.  Concerning  this  visit, 
Ilazlitt  relates  that  Wordsworth,  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow, remarked,  "  How  beautifully  the  sun  sets  on  that 
yellow  bank,"  and  says  that  he  thought  within  himself, 
'  With  what  eyes  these  poets  see  nature."  If  ordinary 
men  did  not  even  look  at  nature,  and  such  men  as  Pope 


THE  LYRICAL  BALLADS  Xli 

did  not  observe  her  correctly,  no  wonder  that  poetry  was 
the  artificial,  untrue  thing  it  had  become. 

Of  course  there  were  a  few  spirits  who  did  not  yield 
to  the  prevailing  fashion.  Crabbe  observed  nature  al- 
most too  minutely;  the  love  of  simplicity,  started  in 
France  by  Rousseau,  had  before  the  end  of  the  century 
spread  over  the  whole  of  Europe,  and  Blake  wrote  about 
children  and  children's  thoughts. 


The  conjunction  of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  was  a 
most  happy  one  for  the  crusade  against  prosy  verse,  and 
for  purifying  the  two  tendencies  of  naturalism  and  ro- 
mance which  were  beginning  to  be  felt.  The  passage 
from  Coleridge's  "  Biographia  Literaria,"  l  concerning 
the  evolution  of  the  "  Lyrical  Ballads,"  need  not  be  re- 
peated here.  Wordsworth  felt  that  simple,  common- 
place objects  might  be  invested  with  an  ideal  beauty;  or 
rather,  possess  such  beauty  only  needing  to  be  discovered, 
and  that  they  might  become  subjects  for  good  poetry  ex- 
pressed in  the  ordinary  language  of  prose.  Coleridge 
contended  that  the  supernatural  or  romantic  is  also  a 
legitimate  theme  for  poetry,  and  that  it  could  be  so 
treated  as  to  appear  for  the  time  being  as  real  and  human 
as  incidents  of  common  life.  In  other  words,  the  ideality 
of  nature  as  she  really  exists  was  to  be  brought  out,  and 
the  purely  ideal  was  to  be  made  to  seem  natural. 

Each  poet  took  up  the  side  that  was  congenial  to 
him.  Wordsworth  produced  "  We  are  Seven,"  "  Goody 
Blake,"  "  Expostulation  and  Reply,"  "  Lines  above  Tin- 

1 "  Biographia  Literaria,"  chap.  xiv. 


XXli  INTRODUCTION 

tern  Abbey,"  and  other  poems.  Coleridge  finished  "  The 
Ancient  Planner  "  and  had  begun  "  ( 'hristabel "  and 
"  The  Dark  Ladie,"  but  did  not  wait  to  finish  them. 
"  The  Nightingale  "  and  two  fragments  were  substituted. 
The  volume  came  out  in  IT  OS,  with  a  simple  advertise- 
ment stating  the  views  of  the  authors.  It  began  with 
"  The  Ancient  Mariner  "  and  ended  with  "  Tintern  Ab- 
bey." 

To  tell  the  truth,  it  was  so  different  from  anything 
that  had  appeared  before,  that  the  public  hardly  knew 
how  to  take  it.  That  it  had  a  sale  is  clear,  for  a  second 
edition  with  a  second  volume  added  was  printed  in  1800, 
and  Lamb  wrote,  August  0,  1800,  "  They  have  contrived 
to  spawn  a  new  volume  of  lyrical  ballads,  which  is  to  see 
the  light  in  about  a  month,  and  causes  no  little  excitement 
in  the  literary  world !  " 

This,  however,  is  the  style  of  criticism  it  received  from 
the  Quarterly  Rcvicic : 

"  '  Simon  Lee,  the  Old  Huntsman,'  is  the  portrait,  ad- 
mirably painted,  of  every  huntsman  who  by  toil,  age,  and 
infirmities  is  rendered  unable  to  guide  and  govern  his 
canine  family. 

"  '  Anecdote  for  Fathers.'  Of  this  the  dialogue  is  in- 
genuous and  natural,  but  the  object  of  the  child's  choice 
and  the  inferences  are  not  quite  obvious. 

"  '  AVe  are  Seven.'  Innocent  and  pretty  infantile 
prattle. 

"  '  Lines  Written  near  "Richmond.'  Literally  '  most 
musical,  most  melancholy.'  ' 

Poor  poets!  "What  hope  had  they  of  moving  the  world 
when  a  well-meaning  critic  in  the  best  journal  of  the  time 
could  say  no  more,  and  understood  the  spirit  of  the  poems 


THE  LYRICAL  BALLADS  xxiii 

no  better  than  this?  It  is  not  strange  that,  in  the  second 
edition,  Wordsworth  felt  it  necessary  to  explain  his 
theories  fully;  and  in  a  few  over-strong  statements  of 
the  new  preface  lay  the  germ  of  all  the  future  pother 
about  the  "  school  "  of  Lake  Poets. 

In  this  preface  and  in  succeeding  additions  to  it,  Words- 
worth gave  expression  to  a  great  many  truths  concerning 
the  nature  of  poetry,  but  among  other  statements  he  de- 
clared that  the  common  speech  of  country  people  is  the 
proper  language  for  poetry,  and  that  no  words  should  be 
allowed  in  poetry  which  are  not  commonly  used  in  prose. 
Very  different  this,  from  Gray's  dictum  that  "  the  lan- 
guage of  the  age  is  never  the  language  of  poetry.  Our 
poetry  has  a  language  peculiar  to  itself,  to  which  almost 
every  one  that  has  written  has  added  something,  by  criti- 
cising it  with  foreign  idioms  and  derivations,  nay,  often 
with  new  words  and  invented  terms  of  their  own."  This 
was  exactly  what  Wordsworth  complained  of,  for  in  that 
age  "  poetic  diction  "  was  often  the  only  thing  that  dis- 
tinguished a  poet  from  a  prose  writer. 

The  source  of  trouble  lay  in  the  fact  that  Wordsworth 
over-stated  his  own  theory.  In  these  very  lyrical  ballads 
he  repeatedly  put  language  into  the  mouths  even  of  his 
country  characters  which  they  could  not  have  employed, 
and  sometimes  words  which  are  peculiar  to  poetry;  e.g., 
"  My  watchful  dog  whose  starts  of  furious  Ire,"  or  "  Cot- 
tage after  cottage  oinicd  it  8  stray" 

In  addition  to  this,  he  seems  never  to  have  had  a  per- 
ception of  how  the  pictures  he  presented  might  appear  to 
other  people.  It  is  often  acknowledged  that  he  lacked 
humor,  another  way  of  saying  that  he  had  not  a  sym- 
pathetic imagination.  If  an  incident  affected  him  in  a 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

certain  way,  tbcri  the  same  incident  with  all  its  details, 
would,  he  supposed,  impress  others  in  the  same  way.  If 
his  words  expressed  that  idea  to  his  mind,  he  did  not  un- 
derstand that  to  others  the  effect  might  be  different.  The 
swollen  ankles  of  Simon  Lee  made  part  of  the  pathos  of 
the  story,  and  he  did  not  perceive  that  some  details  assume 
a  prominence  out  of  proportion  to  their  real  value,  if  put 
into  words  along  with  others  more  essential  to  the  picture. 
Why  should  not  his  readers  take  as  he  did, 

"  For  still,  the  more  he  works,  the  more 
Do  his  weak  ankles  swell," 

or  the  famous  couplet  in  "  The  Thorn  "  about  the  grave, 

"  I've  measured  it  from  side  to  side, 
'Tis  three  feet  long1  and  two  feet  wide  "? 

Without  the  preface  the  public  would  have  accepted 
such  defects  as  something  which  the  poet  would  learn  to 
overcome,  but  when  Wordsworth  seemed  to  maintain  that 
this  sort  of  thing  was  his  ideal  of  what  poetry  should 
be,  and  also  attacked  some  of  their  cherished  favorites, 
then  they  began  to  fear  and  hate  him,  and  defended 
themselves  by  heaping  ridicule  on  him  and  on  everyone 
who  happened  to  be  connected  with  him. 

It  must  be  acknowledged  that,  into  the  most  beautiful 
creations,  Wordsworth  would  occasionally  insert  a  trivial 
or  a  grotesque  detail.  His  "  hebetude  of  intellect  "  shows 
itself  in  several  of  the  lyrical  ballads,  but  we  might  sup- 
pose that  the  criticism  of  friends — Coleridge  and  Lamb 
were  no  mean  critics — and  his  own  natural  affinity  for 
the  essential  beauty  of  nature  would  have  helped  him  to 
outgrow  the  tendency. 


THE  LYRICAL  BALLADS  XXV 

To  some  degree  he  did  outgrow  it,  but  as  Ilazlitt  says, 
u  If  Byron  was  the  spoiled  child  of  fortune,  Wordsworth 
was  the  spoiled  child  of  disappointment."  Such  criticism 
as  came  to  him  was  mainly  downright  insult.  The  gen- 
eral public  ignored  him.  The  inherent  charm  of  his 
work  could  not  immediately  win  recognition  in  a  world 
accustomed  to  something  so  entirely  different.  He  had 
to  create  the  taste  for  his  poetry,  and  comparatively  few 
men  read  it  enough  to  acquire  a  liking  for  it.  For  years 
he  earned  almost  nothing  by  his  writing.  In  1820  he 
complained,  "  The  whole  of  my  fortune  from  the  writing 
trade  not  amounting  to  seven-score  pounds."  He  had  to 
live  in  the  humblest  fashion,  trusting  to  the  Tightness  of 
his  doctrine  to  conquer  in  the  end.  Naturally,  however, 
the  very  fierceness  of  the  attack  upon  him  caused  a  nature 
like  his  to  cling  even  more  closely  to  his  preconceived 
theories;  and,  still  worse,  to  cling  to  the  bald  statement 
rather  than  to  the  essential  spirit  of  them,  so  that  he  came 
to  insist  more  and  more  upon  untenable  principles,  and 
finally  to  develop  a  chronic  commonplaceness  from  which 
he  might  perhaps  have  been  saved,  had  he  not  been 
goaded  into  obstinacy. 

A  certain  inability  of  his  nature  to  perceive  how  an  im- 
age would  impress  others  caused  an  insistence  upon  triv- 
ial details  which  was  rendered  more  emphatic  by  opposi- 
tion; his  inborn  reserve  and  austerity  of  temper  were  in- 
creased by  the  battle  with  himself  after  his  disappoint- 
ment in  the  French  Revolution.  These  two  defects 
caused  the  chief  blemishes  in  his  poetry;  but  the  beauty 
of  the  best  portions  of  his  work,  and  the  far-reaching  ef- 
fect he  has  had  upon  the  poets  that  succeeded  him,  make 
it  an  ungrateful  task  to  mention  his  shortcomings.  His 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

own  prefaces  to  the  second  and  third  editions  of  the 
"  Lyrical  Ballads  "  state  his  theories.  Coleridge's  "  Bio- 
graphia  Literaria,"  Chapters  IV.  and  XIV.  to  XXII., 
discuss  their  merits.  When  Coleridge  writes,  "  And  I 
reflect  with  delight  how  little  a  mere  theory,  though  of 
his  own  workmanship,  interferes  with  the  processes  of 
genuine  imagination  in  a  man  of  true  poetic  genius,  who 
possesses,  as  Mr.  Wordsworth,  if  ever  man  did,  most 
assuredly  does, 

'  The  Vision  and  the  Faculty  divine,'  " 

we  acknowledge  that  our  feeling  but  corroborates  the 
statements  of  discerning  criticism. 

By  1802  Coleridge  had  lost  his  "  shaping  spirit  of  im- 
agination." The  fatal  opium  habit  was  already  appar- 
ently his  master,  and  lie  ceased  to  write  poetry  except  oc- 
casionally. Wordsworth's  power  lasted  much  longer. 
Most  of  his  best  poetry  was  written  before  1808,  but  there 
is  a  great  body  of  composition,  conscientiously  increased 
from  year  to  year  down  almost  to  the  very  end  of  his  life, 
and  until  1818  there  are  many  gleams  of  the  old  light  and 
life. 

Without  any  more  writing,  however,  the  two  poets  had 
sowed  the  seeds  of  an  inevitable  revolution,  in  the  volume 
which  began  with  "  The  Ancient  Mariner  "  .and  ended 
with  "  Tintern  Abbey."  They  had  pointed  the  way  TO 
a  simple,  natural  realism,  and  had  shown  that  the  roman- 
tic, could  be  treated  without  sensationalism  and  without 
vulgarity. 


WORDSWORTH  xxvii 

Much  as  has  been  written  about  "Wordsworth,  it  is 
easier  to  feel  his  charm  than  to  analyze  it.  Hardly  any 
two  men  find  the  same  elements  in  it;  each  one  discovers 
special  beauties,  and  having  felt  the  attraction  invents 
some  theory  to  account  for  it.  One  man  thinks  his  early 
poetry  is  strong  in  its  appeal  to  the  eye;  others  are  per- 
suaded that  hearing  was  his  most  perfect  sense.  All 
would  agree,  however,  that  "  lie  pushed  the  domain  of 
poetry  into  a  wliole  field  of  subjects  hitherto  unap- 
proached  by  the  poets;  "  that  everywhere  "  he  went 
straight  to  the  inside  of  things,"  and  that  "  this  one  char- 
acteristic set  him  in  entire  opposition  to  the  art  of  the  last 
century."  1 

We  think  of  him  chiefly  as  a  poet  of  nature,  but  such 
also  were  Thomson  and  Cowper.  With  them,  however, 
and  with  other  poets  before  Wordsworth,  Xature  had  no 
personality  of  her  own.  In  her  presence,  the  eye  might 
be  delighted,  the  mind  terrified,  or  the  spirit  soothed,  but 
she  was  always  and  only  a  material  creation.  Words- 
worth saw  much  more  in  Xaturc.  To  him  she  was  one  of 
the  manifestations  of  God,  something  endowed  with  a 
spirit  of  her  own.  Xot  only  that,  but  different  places 
showed  special  characteristics  of  this  universal  life  that 
is  in  Xature.  One  spot  may  be  laughing  and  gay;  an- 
other, or  the  same  under  different  influences,  sober  or 
stern.  Furthermore,  Xature  enjoys  this  life  that  she  has, 
and  seeks  to  communicate  her  delight  to  man.  She  is 
ready,  if  man  will  put  himself  into  the  right  frame  of 
mind,  to  enter  into  his  spirit.  In  other  words,  the  two 
manifestations  of  God,  in  man  and  in  nature,  arc1  always 


1  J.  C.  Shairp,  "Studies  in  Poetry  ami  Philosophy,"  pp   G2-G4. 


xxvili  INTRODUCTION 

seeking  to  be  one,  and  the  mind,  if  it  accepts  the  union, 
can  create  something  more  lovely  than  either  man  could 
imagine  or  nature  produce,  without  this  marriage. 

But  the  poet  must  not  lose  himself  in  idle  rcvery,  or 
give  himself  up  to  mere  impulse  as  prompted  by  the  con- 
tact with  nature.  He  must  strive  consciously  to  put  him- 
self into  the  mood  which  harmonizes  with  the  spirit  per- 
vading the  scene  before  him.  He  must  not  allow  himself 
to  be  intoxicated  by  the  beauty  or  the  grandeur,  but  must 
wait,  drink  in  all  the  influences  of  the  place,  and  sinking 
into  the  depths  of  his  inner  self,  in  quiet  contemplation 
reproduce  to  the  world  the  result  of  the  insight  into  the 
heart  of  nature  wrhich  his  receptive  mind  has  gained. 

This  was  a  sufficiently  lofty  ideal,  and  difficult  to  at- 
tain; but  more  than  any  poet  except  Milton,  Words- 
worth had  a  firm  faith  in  his  own  dedication  to  poetry. 
His  consecration  of  himself  was  the  first  and  most  im- 
portant element  of  his  existence.  In  his  devotion  to  this 
mission,  he  lived  the  most  abstemious  of  lives;  his  lofty 
egotism  even  demanded  and  accepted  as  right  a  continual 
service  from  others,  as  to  a  being  set  apart,  whose  calling 
was  of  more  importance  than  that  of  mankind  in  general. 

This  self-consecration  together  with  the  habit  of 
"  sinking  back  upon  himself,"  and  his  own  conception  of 
poetry  that  "  it  takes  its  origin  from  emotion  recollected 
in  tranquillity,"  etc.,  perhaps  account  for  the  sense  of 
solitude  in  most  of  his  poetry,  that  "  pure,  deep  well  of 
solitary  joy."  In  reading  it  we  do  not  think  of  the  pres- 
ence of  others  or  of  communication  with  others.  We  feel 
alone  witli  nature. 

Wordsworth  is  not  only  the  interpreter  of  Clod  in  nat- 
ure, but  also  of  God  in  man;  but  in  this  character  he  is  not 


WORDSWORTH 

pre-eminent.  His  spirit  does  not  so  unreservedly  ally 
itself  with  the  spirit  without.  He  cannot  enter  so  fully 
into  the  individual  lives  of  men  as  into  the  special  moods 
of  Nature.  When  he  does  not  use  his  men  and  women 
merely  to  bring  out  more  sympathetically  the  character 
of  the  place,  he  still  shows  them  too  much  as  abstractions. 

As  for  his  theories  about  the  soul  and  its  past  history, 
they  have  been  erected  into  the  Platonic  system  by 
Wordsworthians,  and  they  have  been  called  only  "  ideas 
of  pre-existence  and  reminiscence  which  he  liked  and  out 
of  which  he  made  his  thought." '  The  "  Ode  on  Intima- 
tions of  Immortality  "  and  some  verses  in  "  The  Pre- 
lude "  bring  out  the  conception  most  definitely,  but  it 
pervades  other  poems.  All  of  us  have  at  times  dim  pict- 
ures and  half-comprehended  images  in  our  minds,  and 
Wordsworth,  with  whom  these  suggestions  were  pecul- 
iarly vivid,  put  them  into  poetic  form.  It  is  hardly  nec- 
essary to  maintain  that  he  had  formulated  a  definite 
system  of  philosophy  on  the  subject. 

In  consequence  of  these  characteristics  of  Words- 
worth, we  find  that  his  work  has  a  singular  homogene- 
ousness.  As  Blacku'ooa"'$  Magazine  says,  "  A  systematic 
correspondence  pervades  the  whole,  so  that  the  perusal  of 
one  piece  frequently  leads  the  reader's  own  mind  into  a 
tract  of  thought  which  is  afterwards  found  to  be  devel- 
oped by  the  poet  himself  in  some  other  performance." 
His  life,  passed  almost  wholly  among  the  northern  hills, 
his  early  formulation  of  a  poetical  creed,  his  never-weak- 
ening command  over  himself  and  his  emotions,  and  his 
consequent  ability  to  maintain  the  same  spirit  even  in 


1  B.  A.  Brooke,  "  Theology  in  the  English  Poets,"  p.  22. 


xxx  INTRODUCTION 

differing  moods,  account  for  this  quality.  He  did  not  try 
experiments  with  his  muse,  but  imposed  upon  her  a  con- 
sistent character. 

For  his  style,  the  best  description  is  that  of  R.  II.  Hut- 
ton  :  "  The  most  characteristic  earlier  and  the  most  char- 
acteristic later  style  are  alike  in  the  limpid  coolness  of  their 
effect,  the  effect  in  the  earlier  style  of  bubbling  water,  in 
the  later  of  morning  dew."  There  is  a  buoyancy  of  re- 
strained passion  in  some  of  his  best  known  poems,  and  a 
chaste  contemplativeness  in  part  of  his  later  work  that 
soothes  and  calms  the  troubled  spirit.  This  may  be  said 
of  his  good  work.  On  the  cumbrous  heaviness  of  his 
preaching  vein,  when  the  sense  of  his  mission  got  the  bet- 
ter of  his  genuine  emotions,  it  is  needless  to  enlarge. 


Coleridge  was  as  unlike  his  friend  as  possible.  With 
a  much  more  deeply  philosophical  mind,  with  an  infi- 
nitely greater  power  to  suffer,  and  hence  to  echo  the  feel- 
ings of  toiling,  wronged  humanity,  with  a  sense  of  the  un- 
substantial, mysterious  world  hovering  about  us,  and  an 
imagination  capable  of  portraying  pictures  which  lie 
beyond  reality,  he  tried  various  forms  of  expression, 
seemed  to  surpass  in  several,  and  then,  before  he  had 
chosen  the  medium  which  best  suited  him,  lost  his  hold 
upon  himself  and  upon  his  creative  power. 

If  he  had  found  his  theme,  it  would  perhaps  have  been 
the  relation  of  man  to  Ood  and  to  mankind.  As  it  is,  his 
best  poems  vibrate  with  human  emotion.  There  is  a  per- 
sonal cry  in  lliem  all;  more  ihan  most  poems  they  need 
to  be  read  with  the  commentary  of  his  daily  life  fresh  in 
the  mind.  "  The  Ancient  ^Mariner  "  is  a  masterpiece  in 


the  domain  of  romance,  but  at  the  end  of  its  vivid  imag- 
ery comes  the  little  sermon,  "  He  prayeth  best  who  loveth 
best,"  as  if  Coleridge  had  suddenly  forgotten  his  charac- 
ters, and  was  speaking  for  himself.  In  "  Christabel," 
also,  there  seems  to  be  an  undercurrent  of  feeling  that 
pure,  prayerful  love  will  suffice  to  conquer  the  wiles  of 
evil.  As  his  mind  was  always  seeking  for  psychological 
truth,  so  his  heart  yearned  for  affection.  One  might  al- 
most say  that,  like  Shelley,  he  was  in  love  with  love; 
only  that,  unlike  Shelley,  his  passion  was  not  for  tran- 
scendental, ideal  love,  but  for  plain,  comforting,  human 
love,  and  trust  in  God.  In  the  poems  which  mention 
Sara  and  Little  Hartley,  Lamb  and  Wordsworth,  there  is 
always  this  tender  love.  In  the  "  Ode  on  the  Departing 
Year,"  the  subject  is  the  violation  of  the  love  of  man  to 
man,  nation  to  nation. 

With  this  simple  faith  in  the  power  of  love,  with  his 
far-reaching  imagination  and  his  eager  inquiry  into  phil- 
osophic truth,  he  might  in  time  have  solved  for  us  some 
of  the  problems  of  life,  as  Wordsworth  has  developed 
the  teaching  of  nature,  but  he  was  a  wrecked  man  before 
the  time  came.  From  his  boyhood  he  had  been  subject  to 
violent  attacks  of  neuralgia,  and  he  had  not  the  resolute 
will  necessary  to  endure  pain.  As  early  as  1792  he  was 
familiar  with  the  use  of  ether;  by  1803  he  was  the  prey 
of  opium.  It  sapped  his  manhood,  and  wrung  from  him 
over  and  over  again  tears  of  blood,  for  he  knew  that  with- 
out help  he  had  not  strength  to  free  himself  from  his  tor- 
mentor. In  1816,  after  years  of  fitful,  homeless  wander- 
ing, he  put  himself  under  the  care  of  Mr.  Gillman  to  be 
shielded  from  temptation. 

His  light  of  poetry  was  indeed  gone  out.     Happy  for 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION 

him  that  he  could  still  recover  his  intellectual  sway.  In 
his  later  days  he  drew  about  him  eager  young  men  ready 
for  the  impress  of  high  thoughts,  and  he  lived  to  prove 
that  always  he  was  "  one  who  loved  the  light  and  grew 
toward  it." 


Shelley  was  twenty  years  younger  than  Coleridge  and 
grew  to  manhood  when  the  influence  of  Wordsworth  and 
Coleridge  was  already  part  of  the  literary  environment. 
He  came  from  a  family  of  honorable  antiquity,  though 
apparently  of  no  literary  or  special  intellectual  gifts. 
His  father  was  a  kindly,  worldly,  somewhat  irascible 
gentleman  of  no  imagination;  his  mother  is  described  as 
beautiful  and  sensible. 

The  son  Shelley  would  have  been  an  ugly  duckling  in 
any  family.  Tall  and  slender,  with  an  exceedingly 
small  face  and  an  abundance  of  wavy  brown  hair  which 
he  wore  long  in  an  age  when  fashion  cropped  the  hair; 
so  awkward  that  in  later  years  lie  would  upset  the  foot- 
man's gravity  by  tumbling  over  himself  as  he  went  up- 
stairs, yet  so  agile  that,  as  he  walked  through  the  streets 
of  London,  intent  on  a  book,  he  would  slip  out  of  the  press 
with  unconscious  ease  when  anyone  in  the  crowd  tried 
to  jostle  him;  with  a  voice  of  singular  depth  and  sweet- 
ness when  reading  calmly,  but  rising  to  a  discordant 
screech  if  he  was  excited  or  incensed,  lie  spent  his  life  in 
a  perpetual  warfare  between  the  deep  love  he  bore  man- 
kind, and  the  hatred  of  the  world  which  was  outraged  by 
his  way  of  promulgating  thai  love.  If  ever  there  was  a 
boy  who  did  not  belong  to  the  respectable,  unimaginative, 


SHELLEY  xxxiii 

world-fearing — rather  than  God-fearing — family  into 
which  he  was  born,  it  was  Shelley. 

By  the  time  he  went  to  Oxford  he  was  proud  of  the 
name  of  u  Atheist,"  by  which  he  meant  that  he  did  not 
believe  in  historical  Christianity.  In  later  years  he  had 
a  profound  reverence  for  the  founder  of  Christianity,  and 
a  firm  belief  in  the  loving  power  which  he  conceived  as 
ruling  in  the  Universe;  but  he  always  felt  a  deep  abhor- 
rence for  established  orthodoxy. 

In  those  days  such  sentiments  were  sufficiently  start- 
ling; when  they  were  accompanied  by  other  beliefs 
which  would  destroy  the  morality  as  \vell  as  the  religion 
of  society,  it  is  not  surprising  that  he  was  branded  as  a 
demon.  He  was  a  disciple  of  William  Godwin,  whose 
"  Inquiry  concerning  Political  Justice  "  had  given  voice 
to  some  of  the  wildest  ideas  engendered  by  the  French 
Revolution.  Shelley  honestly  believed  that  marriage  is 
wrong,  and  though  he  was  twice  married,  he  submitted 
against  his  own  judgment  to  the  prejudices  of  society. 
According  to  his  standard,  true  love  is  the  only  force 
which  should  bind;  if  true  love  ceases  the  bond  should 
be  broken;  if  it  holds  there  is  no  need  of  the  marriage 
ceremony. 

Xo  wonder  society  stood  aghast.  Strangers  could  not 
know  his  deep  love  for  his  fellow-beings;  his  fixed 
belief  that  mankind  left  to  itself  is  pure  and  good,  and 
that  sham  government  and  sham  religion  have  debased 
the  world;  his  intense  yearning  for  that  perfect  harmony 
between  God  and  man  and  the  universe  which  constituted 
the  true  music  of  the  spheres. 

The  hostility  of  the  world  had  its  effect  on  Shelley's 
poetry.  When  his  father  refused  to  receive  him  at  Field 


INTRODUCTION 

Place,  when  the  cousin  whom  he  loved  drew  away  from 
him,  when  afterward  all  the  world  cried  shame,  and  the 
Lord  Chancellor  refused  him  the  custody  of  his  own  chil- 
dren, it  is  not  strange  that  he  was  thrown  back  upon  him- 
self, or  that  his  mood  fluctuated  between  devotion  to  the 
cause  of  mankind  and  absorption  in  his  own  intellectual 
aspirations  and  personal  affinities.  His  greatest  work, 
"  Prometheus  Unbound,"  combines  both  elements;  it  is 
the  poem  of  the  conquest  of  the  lover  of  mankind  over 
the  oppressor  of  mankind,  cast  in  the  highly  spiritual- 
ized form  which  was  congenial  to  himself.  Most  of  his 
poems,  however,  show  either  one  phase  or  the  other  of 
his  genius ;  in  his  lyrics  he  forgets  mankind  to  express  his 
own  illimitable  thirst  for  ever-unattainable  beauty,  the 
beauty  which  is  truth. 

His  "  lyrical  cry  "  is  unlike  the  note  of  any  other  lyric 
poet.  It  has  been  said  that  he  sings  not  what  he  feels,  but 
what  he  wishes  to  feel,  what  is  almost  within  his  grasp, 
but  always  eluding  him.  He  yearns  with  passionate  in- 
tensity for  intellectual  beauty,  but  the  passion  is  not  of 
this  world;  his  desires  like  his  images  are  highly  subli- 
mated forms,  always  ideal  beauty,  ideal  expression. 

Though  his  mind  in  its  reaching  out  did  not  under- 
stand all  the  mysteries  which  thrilled  his  being,  at  least 
he  came  near  to  a  spiritual  perception  of  nature  and  di- 
vinity, and  his  very  song  uplifts  us.  Asa  mere  matter  of 
harmonious  melody  the  poem  sings  itself  into  our  brains. 
If  his  words  meant  nothing  we  should  still  feel  their 
charm.  "With  him,  however,  the  song  is  a  subtle  inter- 
weaving of  thought  with  emotion.  He  has  given  expres- 
sion to  that  bitter-sweet,  half-comprehended  longing  for 
the  unknown  which  pervades  a  large  portion  of  society 


KEATS  xxxv 

in  this  nineteenth  century.  lie  lias  set  his  stamp  upon 
many  a  follower,  and  has  influenced  the  thought  of  latter- 
day  poetry  even  more  directly  than  Wordsworth  himself. 
Wordsworth  has  had  a  wider  influence  upon  the  thought 
of  the  century,  Shelley  a  more  personal  one  upon  individ- 
ual characters. 


The  names  of  Shelley  and  Keats  are  often  coupled, 
partly,  no  doubt,  because  they  were  of  nearly  the  same 
age,  partly  also  because  Shelley  in  the  "  Adonais  "  so 
passionately  bewailed  the  younger  poet's  death ;  but  dur- 
ing Keats's  life-time  the  two  men  saw  little  of  each  other. 
Apparently  Keats  half  distrusted  the  brilliant,  untam- 
able iconoclast,  who  fought  so  desperate  a  fight  with  so- 
ciety, trying,  it  seemed,  to  batter  down  the  good  with  the 
bad,  and  believing  in  the  perfectibility  of  man.  Keats 
himself  knew  nothing  of  such  championship.  The 
strongest  element  of  his  early  life  was  his  love  for  his 
own  family,  and  as  his  affection  was  intense  so  it  was 
narrow.  He  had  no  natural  interest  in  the  problems  of 
humanity. 

It  is  hardly  easier  in  his  case  than  in  Shelley's  to  guess 
the  sources  of  his  genius.  Tradition  says  that  his  father, 
a  London  stable-keeper,  came  from  Devonshire.  His 
mother  had  a  reputation  for  wit  and  talent.  Certainly, 
both  his  parents  must  have  had  more  intelligence  and 
ambition  than  most  people  in  their  station,  for  the  chil- 
dren were  sent  to  a  good  school  out  in  the  country.  Both 
parents  died,  however,  while  Keats  and  his  brothers  were 
still  young. 

At  school,  when  Keats  was  not  fighting  the  bigger  boys, 


INTRODUCTION 

lie  \vas  dreaming  away  his  time  among  books  of  Greek 
mythology.  He  knew  them  by  heart.  He  read  all  the 
books  on  history,  travel,  and  fiction  that  he  could  find; 
but  he  was  not  studious.  It  was  not  till  after  he  had  left 
school  and  was  apprenticed  to  a  surgeon  that  he  felt  a 
serious  drawing  toward  literature.  Then  the  reading  of 
Spenser  roused  him.  He  "  ramped  "  through  "  The 
Faery  Queen"  with  delight,  eagerly  seizing  upon  any  fine 
epithet  or  vivid  bit  of  imagery,  and  soon  began  to  imitate 
the  stanza.  Before  his  term  of  apprenticeship  was  over, 
he  quarrelled  with  his  master,  and  though  he  studied  in 
the  hospitals  for  two  years,  he  finally  gave  himself  unre- 
servedly to  poetry.  His  first  volume  of  poems  appeared 
in  1817,  when  he  was  twenty-two  years  old. 

For  the  next  two  years  his  power  steadily  grew,  till  sor- 
row and  trouble  and  sickness  destroyed  his  energies.  In 
1818  he  was  nursing  his  brother  Tom,  who  was  dying  of 
consumption.  The  next  year  he  was  himself  attacked  by 
the  hereditary  disease.  In  the  meantime  he  was  harassed 
by  want  of  money,  the  ample  portion  left  by  bis  grand- 
father having  been  so  badly  managed  and  so  poorly  ac- 
counted for,  that  the  children  did  not  even  know  of  the 
existence  of  part  of  it  till  after  two  of  them  had  died. 

In  addition  to  these  disturbances,  he  fell  so  passion- 
ately in  love  that  his  mind  lost  its  vigor.  To  the  lover  of 
Keats  the  saddest  thing  about  his  life  is,  not  that  it  was 
so  short,  but  that  love  should  have  so  unmanned  him. 
Even  if  he  had  been  well,  it  would  have  been  difficult  for 
him  to  wait  and  work  till  he  could  marry.  His  passion 
only  hastened  the  end.  lie  died  at  Koine  in  1821,  and 
was  buried  in  the  little  Protestant  cemetery  by  the  pyra- 
mid of  C'estius. 


KEATS  ixxvii 

Keats  has  been  called  an  Elizabethan  because  he  so 
delighted  in  the  physical  beauty  of  outward  nature;  but 
his  feeling  was  a  sense  of  luxury  in  the  voluptuousness 
and  exuberance  of  nature,  which  is  far  from  the  active, 
keen  enjoyment  of  the  Elizabethans.  Indeed,  his  early 
poems  show  so  much  sensuous  weakness,  that  there  is 
small  wonder  his  work  was  not  well  received.  "  Endy- 
mion,"  his  second  volume,  called  forth  a  brutal  review 
from  the  Quarterly,  which  was  long  popularly  supposed 
to  have  caused  his  death;  and  another  only  less  harsh, 
from  Blackwood. 

In  reality  Keats  was  far  too  manly  to  be  seriously  in- 
jured by  the  Quarterly.  lie  acknowledged  that  "  Endy- 
inion  "  was  but  the  sloughing  off  of  youthful  feelings. 
He  knew  that  he  must  get  rid  of  these  ideas  in  order  to 
grow  into  something  stronger.  In  the  last  three  years  of 
his  life  he  gained  that  power  to  prune  which  he  lacked  in 
"  Endymion."  What  he  wrote  showed  reserve  force  as 
well  as  great  beauty  of  imagery. 

He  did  not  write  of  the  practical  every-day  matters 
which  appealed  to  Wordsworth,  nor  did  unfathomable 
intellectual  beauty  attract  him  as  it  did  Shelley.  His 
interest  lay  not  in  life  around  him,  nor  in  things  beyond 
him,  but  in  classic  legends, — stories  which  had  already 
received  a  halo  from  past  literatures. 

In  another  direction,  also,  Keats  was  unlike  the  others. 
His  theory  was  that  a  poet  should  have  no  personality 
of  his  own,  but  should  absorb  the  moods  of  everyone 
around  him;  should  give  himself  up  wholly  to  influences 
outside  of  himself,  because  only  thus  can  he  feel  the 
beauty  and  the  truth  of  the  world.  This  was  very  dif- 
ferent from  the  aim  of  Wordsworth  to  put  himself  into 


xxxviii  INTRODUCTION 

the  right  mood,  and  then  receive  what  nature  had  to  tell, 
sinking  deeper  into  contemplation  in  himself  in  order  to 
interpret  aright;  or  from  the  eager  curiosity  of  Shelley 
consciously  lifting  the  veil  which  covers  the  secrets  of 
nature. 

A  third  point  of  variance  lay  in  his  attitude  toward  his 
calling.  Wordsworth  wTrote  because  he  had  something  to 
teach;  Shelley  felt  that  the  only  way  for  him  to  lighten 
the  burden  of  the  world  was  by  using  his  poetic  gift; 
both  \vanted  to  help  humanity.  Keats  adopted  poetry 
because  it  was  life  to  himself.  He  could  not  exist  with- 
out it.  The  pleasure  or  profit  of  the  world  was  of  little 
importance  to  him,  if  he  had  once  satisfied  his  nature  by 
creating  something  beautiful. 

Doubtless,  had  he  lived,  other  motives  would  have  de- 
veloped in  him.  He  began  toward  the  end  to  appreciate 
the  power  for  good  which  he  might  wrield,  and  wrote  of 
studies  to  be  undertaken  in  order  to  fit  himself  for  the 
mission  of  teaching  mankind.  That  side  of  his  character, 
however,  had  not  time  to  mature.  He  died  at  the  age  of 
twenty-five,  leaving  behind  him,  besides  his  crude,  early 
work,  a  few  odes  and  poems  which  have  never  been  sur- 
passed for  delicacy  of  touch  and  richness  of  imagery,  and 
the  mighty  fragment  of  "  Hyperion,"  begun  on  so  lofty  a 
scale  that  it  could  no  more  have  been  finished  than  Cole- 
ridge's "  Christabel."  The  promise  that  the  future 
would  show  wider  sympathies  with  no  less  perfection  of 
form  was  never  fulfilled. 


Of  all  the  tragedies  in  the  lives  of  the  poets  of  Words- 
worth's era,  that  of  Byron  seems  both  the  most  and  the 


BYRON  xxxix 

least  pathetic;  most  pathetic  because  in  his  life  of  thirty- 
six  years  he  had  less  real  love  and  happiness  than  even  the 
men  who  died  younger;  least  so,  because  his  genius  seems 
to  have  been  not  so  much  in  need  of  happiness  to  stimu- 
late it  to  action.  The  best  poetry  of  Wordsworth  and 
Coleridge  and  Shelley  and,  to  a  certain  extent,  of  Keats, 
was  all  written  under  the  spell  of  domestic  love ;  Byron 
wrote  his  best  after  he  had  been  driven  with  reviling  from 
England,  when  nome-life  was  forever  closed  upon  him, 
when  he  knew  that  his  daughter  was  not  even  allowed  to 
see  his  portrait.  But  the  old  Berserker  blood  flowed  in 
his  veins;  perhaps  he  was  more  truly  happy  when  fight- 
ing the  world  than  when  at  peace  with  it. 

His  family  had  both  good  and  evil  elements  in  it.  It 
.  was  very  old — he  could  trace  it  back  to  before  the  Con- 
quest— and  he  was  very  proud  of  it ;  as  for  his  parents — 
his  father  was  a  scamp  who  ran  through  the  fortunes  of 
two  wives  and  deserted  them;  his  mother  was  a  vixen. 
For  himself — a  defect  in  the  shape  of  one  foot  was  the 
cause  of  much  irritable  sensitiveness,  and  he  was  as 
effectually  spoiled,  by  the  alternate  petting  and  violence 
of  his  mother,  as  it  was  possible  for  a  boy  to  be.  All  the 
good  influences  of  Harrow  and  of  Cambridge  were  not 
enough  to  tame  a  creature  so  erratic  by  inheritance  and 
early  treatment. 

When  he  left  the  University  and  had  taken  his  seat  in 
the  House  of  Lords,  he  travelled  for  two  years  through 
Spain,  Greece,  and  Turkey,  returning  with  the  first  two 
cantos  of  "  Childe  Harold  "  in  his  pocket.  For  the  next 
four  years  he  was  the  darling  of  London  society. 
"  Childe  Harold,"  and  the  romantic  tales  which  followed 
it,  just  suited  the  public  taste;  he  had  all  the  admiration 


xl  INTRODUCTION 

his  haughty  soul  demanded ;  he  was  a  peer,  the  descend- 
ant of  peers,  and  lie  was  a  poet. 

During  this  time  in  London,  he  was  advised  to  marry 
and  settle  down;  and,  having  had  his  fling  in  the  world, 
probably,  also,  hoping  to  retrieve  his  fortune,  he  pro- 
posed to  Mias  Milbank.  Unfortunately  he  was  accepted. 
He  did  not  pretend  to  be  deeply  in  love ;  perhaps  the  only 
real  passion  of  his  life  was  his  youthful  attachment  to 
Mary  Chaworth,  the  daughter  of  a  neighbor  and  heredi- 
tary enemy.  At  all  events  her  shadow  rose  before  him  at 
the  altar.  He  seemed,  however,  to  live  happily  enough 
with  his  wife  for  a  year,  and  it  was  she  who  forced  the 
separation  between  them.  Soon  after  the  birth  of  their 
daughter,  she  went  home  on  a  visit  and  from  there  in- 
formed him  that  she  did  not  intend  to  return. 

The  reasons  for  her  action  may  never  be  exactly 
known.  Undoubtedly,  Byron  was  of  uneven  temper, 
and  had  been  disappointed  in  not  coming  into  immediate 
possession  of  his  wife's  property.  Perhaps  Lady  Byron 
was  jealous.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  whole  world  rose 
against  the  man  who  during  four  years  had  been  its  idol. 
Xo  invented  story  was  too  atrocious  to  be  believed.  His 
friends  considered  his  very  life  in  danger;  he  himself 
was  anxious  to  leave  a  country  where  he  was  so  detested, 
and  a  mode  of  life  the  hollowness  of  which  had  begun  to 
tire  him. 

lie  spent  the  next  seven  years  chiefly  in  Italy,  at  times 
leading  a  life  unworthy  of  his  better  self,  but  profiting  by 
the  friendship  of  Shelley,  and  always  displaying  a  keen 
interest  in  politics  both  at  home  and  abroad.  ITe  even 
aided  the  movement  toward  liberty  which  swept  over 
Italy  in  1820-1821,  although  he  saw  clearly  that  the  time 


BYRON  xli 

for  Italian  unity  had  not  yet  conic.  When  the  Greeks 
broke  out  into  rebellion,  lie  was  asked  to  see  what  his 
presence  and  negotiations  might  do.  lie  went,  but  lived 
only  long  enough  to  win  the  confidence  and  affection  of 
all  parties  by  his  diplomatic  skill.  He  died  of  malarial 
fever,  at  Missolonghi,  in  1824. 

Pre-eminent  among  other  poets  of  his  time,  Byron  is 
the  poet  of  the  Revolution.  The  inherent  conservatism 
of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  asserted  itself  soon  after 
their  first  youthful  outbreaks;  they  were  frightened  by 
the  excesses  of  France  into  adherence  to  England,  the 
product  of  evolution  rather  than  of  revolution.  By  the 
time  Byron  was  old  enough  to  understand  something  of 
politics,  the  reaction  against  Xapoleon  was  at  its  height; 
on  the  other  hand,  the  worst  details  of  the  years  1792- 
1704  had  sunk  into  the  background,  so  that  Byron  felt 
the  grandeur  of  the  ideal  for  which  the  French  had 
striven,  without  its  sickening  horrors.  Moreover,  he  was 
a  hero-worshipper.  Xapoleon,  the  man  of  achievement, 
fired  his  soul.  ITe  burned  with  the  zeal  of  self-assertion. 
He  gloried  in  the  joy  of  individual  freedom. 

This  characteristic  was  not  wholly  the  effect  of  the 
age  in  which  he  lived;  it  was  the  result  of  his  strong  per- 
sonality. He  was  a  man  of  exaggerated  emotions,  lie 
judged  everything  in  life  as  it  affected  himself.  Every 
scene  or  incident  was  colored  to  his  imagination  by  his 
own  feelings,  which  were  peculiarly  vivid. 

Another  and  less  happy  trait  was  a  lack  of  reserve. 
The  frankness  which  helped  to  ruin  his  own  life,  how- 
ever, was  of  value  to  succeeding  poets.  He  created  a  new 
style  of  poetry,  which  scattered  broadcast  a  most  inti- 
mate knowledge  of  his  own  personality;  and,  whatever 


xlii  INTRODUCTION 

its  accompanying  faults,  the  sincerity  with  which  he 
struck  this  new  note  was  true  enough  to  make  his  name 
honored.  Though  he  carried  self-revelation  to  the  point 
of  weakness,  his  fearless  expression  of  individuality  was 
as  important  an  element  in  the  new  era  of  poetry  as 
Wordsworth's  return  to  nature. 

The  force  of  Byron's  sentiment  and  the  boldness  with 
which  he  revealed  his  personality  captured  the  heart  of 
society;  but  the  rashness,  the  lack  of  self-control,  the 
theatrical  display  of  emotion  which  he  exhibited  in  his 
earlier  work  have  caused  an  eclipse  of  his  popularity  dur- 
ing the  last  forty  years.  Englishmen  are  only  now  begin- 
ning to  appreciate  his  inherent  strength,  which  foreigners 
perceived  from  the  first;  but  even  without  an  under- 
standing of  his  merits,  English  poetry  has  shown  the 
effect  of  his  influence. 

Another  manifestation  of  the  independence  of  Byron's 
nature  lay  in  his  strong  historic  sense.  England  had,  it 
is  true,  a  reverence  for  her  own  past,  though  little  knowl- 
edge of  the  world's  history;  but  men  of  the  Revolu- 
tionary period  had  lived  so  entirely  in  the  present,  af- 
fairs of  the  moment  were  so  overwhelmingly  pressing, 
that  continentals  and  English  alike  had  lost  all  interest 
in  the  great  names  of  former  times.  It  is  the  distinguish- 
ing mark  of  Byron  that,  hand  in  hand  with  his  capacity 
for  hero-worship  went  a  veneration  for  past  achievement 
and  forgotten  splendors.  Any  evidences  of  man's  ac- 
tivities, any  battle-field  or  ruined  castle,  roused  his  emo- 
tional nature  to  reflection,  and  every  place  he  visited  in 
his  varied  travels  gave  rise  to  a  picture  or  a  monologue, 
which,  in  course  of  time,  found  its  way  into  his  poetry. 

His  method  forbade  any  unity  in  most  of  his  poems, 


BYRON  Xliii 

but  it  wakened  in  Englishmen  a  feeling  for  history, 
hitherto  quite  unknown.  There  is  hardly  a  spot  in  Eu- 
rope, ordinarily  visited  by  travellers,  which  has  not  ac- 
quired an  historic  as  well  as  a  literary  association  because 
of  his  writing.  /" 

These  two  elements^— the  appeal  to  personal  feeling 
and  a  sense  of  the  historic  past — are  Byron's  contribution 
to  English  poetry .\  Besides  these  qualities,  his  vivid  de- 
scription, his  thrilling  narrative,  his  caustic  wit,  the 
cleverness  of  his  vocabulary,  though  they  had  their  coun- 
terparts in  earlier  poetry,  will  be  sufficient  to  preserve  his 
fame,  notwithstanding  the  roughness  of  his  metre,  the 
lack  of  harmony  in  his  verse,  the  crudeness  of  many  of  his 
ideas.  These  blemishes  are  the  marks  of  a  strong  but  un- 
trained nature,  and  are  atoned  for  by  the  vigor  and  ear- 
nestness with  which  he  wrote. 


With  the  death  of  Byron,  the  poetic  impulse  for  a  time 
subsided;  Tennyson  and  Browning  came  a  generation 
later.  Nevertheless,  a  lasting  revolution  had  been  ef- 
fected and  a  new  era  begun.  With  all  its  varied  growth, 
Xineteenth  Century  poetry  still  retains  something  of  the 
spirit  with  which  the  century  opened,  and  traces  its  de- 
velopment to  the  work  of  the  five  men  represented  in  this 
volume. 


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BIBLIOGRAPHY. 


NOTK.— So  far  as  feasible,  the  present  publishers  and  the  earliest  date  of  publication 
are  indicated. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


EDITIONS    RECOMMENDED. 

Poems  of  Wordsworth.  Selection  by  Matthew  Arnold.  [Golden 
Treasury  Series,  Macmillan.] 

The  Complete  Poetical  Works  of  William  Wordsworth,  with  Introduc- 
tion by  John  Morley.  One  volume.  [Macmillan.]  1888. 

The  Poetical  Works  of  William  Wordsworth.  Edited  by  William 
Knight.  Eight  volumes.  Additional  volumes  with  life  and  prose 
works.  [Patersou.]  1882-80.  (Revised  edition  published  by 
Macmillan,  1897.) 

BIOGRAPHICAL. 

F.  W.  H.  Myers,  Wordsworth.  [Harper's  English  Men  of  Letters 
Series.]  1880. 

William  Minto,  Wordsworth.  [Encyclopaedia  Britannica,  Ninth  Edi- 
tion.] 1888. 

William  Knight,  Life.  Vols.  IX,  X,  XI,  of  Knight's  edition  of  Words- 
worth's Works.  [Paterson.]  1889. 

CRITICAL. 

R.  H.  Hutton,  Essays,  Theological  and  Literary,  Vol.  II.  [Macmil- 
lan.] 1871. 

S.  A.  Brooke,  Theology  in  the  English  Poets.     [II.  S.  King.]     1874. 

Leslie  Stephen,  Hours  in  a  Library,  Third  Series :  Wordsworth's 
Ethics.  [Smith  &  Elder.]  1879. 

E.  P.  Whipple,  Essays  and  Reviews,  Vol.  I.  [Houghton,  Mifflin  & 
Co.]  1848. 

Iv 


Ivi  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Matthew  Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticism,  Second  Series.  [Macniillan.] 
1879.  (The  same  essay  is  the  Introduction  to  Arnold's  Selec- 
tions from  Wordsworth.) 

William  Knight,  editor,  Wordswortliiana.     [Macmillan.]     1889. 

Walter  Pater,  Appreciations.     [Macmillan.]      1874. 

Walter  Bagehot,  Literary  Studies,  Vol.  II :  Wordsworth,  Tennyson, 
and  Browning.  [Longmans.]  1879.  (A  cheap  edition  of  Bage- 
hot's  works  has  been  published  by  the  Hartford  Insurance  Co.) 

Aubrey  de  Vere,  Essays  chiefly  on  Poetry,  Vol.  I.  [Macmillan.] 
1887. 

J.  C.  Shairp,  1.  Studies  in  Poetry  and  Philosophy:  Wordsworth,  the 
Man  and  the  Poet.     [Douglas.]     1808.     (Largely  biographical. ) 
2.  Poetic  Interpretation  of  Xature.     [Douglas.]     1874. 

S.  T.  Coleridge,  Biographia  Literaria,  Chaps.  IV,  XIV,  XVII, 
XVIII,  XIX,  XXII.  [Bohn.]  1817. 

J.  R.  Lowell,  Among  My  Books,  Vol.  II.  [Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.] 
1870.  (Largely  a  discussion  of  Wordsworth's  defects  as  a  poet.) 

Edmond  Scherer,  Essays  in  English  Literature.  Editor,  Saintsbury. 
[Scribner.]  1891.  (Foreigner's  view.) 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  Ivii 


COLERIDGE. 

EDITIONS  RECOMMENDED. 

The  Golden  Book  of  Coleridge,  edited  with  an  introduction  by  Stop- 
ford  A.  Brooke.  [J.  M.  Dent.]  1895. 

The  Poetical  Works  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  edited  with  a  bio- 
graphical introduction  by  James  Dykes  Campbell.  One  volume. 
[Macmillan.]  1893. 

The  Poetical  Works  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge.  Edited  with  intro- 
duction and  notes  by  T.  Ashe.  Two  volumes.  [George  Bell  & 
Sons.  Aldiue  Edition  of  the  British  Poets.] 

BIOGRAPHICAL. 

H.  D.  Traill,  Coleridge.     [Harper's  English  Men  of  Letters  Series.] 

1884. 
E.  II.  Coleridge,  editor,  Letters  of  S.  T.   Coleridge.      [Heinemann.] 

1895. 

L.  Stephen,  Coleridge.     [Dictionary  of  National  Biography.] 
Charles  Lamb,  1.   Letters.     Edited  by  Alfred  Ainger.     Two  volumes 

[Macmillan.]      1888. 

2.   Essays  of   Elia :    Christ's    Hospital   five    and   thirty 

years  ago.     [Armstrong.]     1823-33. 

CRITICAL. 

E.  P.  Whipple,  Essays  and  Reviews,  Vol.  I  :  Coleridge  as  a  Poet  and 

Critic.     [Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.]     1848. 

S.  A.  Brooke,  Theology  in  the  English  Poets.     [Henry  S.  King.]     1874. 
A.   C.  Swinburne,  Essays  and  Studies.      [Chatto  &  Windus.]      1888. 

(Praise  of  Coleridge's  aesthetic  qualities.) 
Edward  Dowden,  New  Studies  in  Literature.      [Kegan  Paul,  Trench  & 

Co.]     1895.     (Points  out  the  perfections  of  Coleridge's  poetry  and 

the  frailties  of  his  nature.) 
Walter  Pater,  Appreciations.      [Macmillan.]     18G5-80.      (Emphasizes 

the  intellectual  passion  for  absolute  truth  as  shown  in  Coleridge's 

poetry.) 
J.  C.  Shairp,  Studies  in  Poetry  and  Philosophy  :  Coleridge,  the  Man 

and  the  Poet.     [Douglas.]     18G8.     (Discussion  of  Coleridge's  in- 
tellectual beliefs.) 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  lix 

SHELLEY. 

EDITIONS  RECOMMENDED. 

Poems  from  Shelley.     Selected  and  arranged  by  Stopford  A.  Brooke. 

[Golden  Treasury  Series,  Macmillan  | 
The   Poetical   Works  of  Percy   Bysshe  Shelley.     Edited   by  Edward 

Dowden.     One  volume.      [Macmillan.]     18!)0.      (Notes,  Life.) 
The  Poetical  Works  of  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.     Edited  by  George  E. 

Woodberry.     Four  volumes.     [Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.]     1892. 

BIOGRAPHICAL. 

,T.  A.  Symonds,  Shelley.     [English  Men  of  Letters  Series.]     1879. 
William  Sharp,  Life.     [Great  Writers  Series,  W.  Scott.]     1887. 
G.  B.  Smith,  Shelley  :  A  Critical  Biography.     [Douglas.]      1877. 
Edward    Dowden,   Life   of   Shelley.     Two   volumes.      [Kegan   Paul, 
Trench  &  Co.]     1880. 

CRITICAL. 

R.  H.  Hutton,  Essays,  Theological  and  Literary,  Vol.  II :  Shelley 
and  his  Writings.  [Macmillan.]  Third  edition,  1888.  (Discus- 
sion of  Shelley's  mysticism.) 

E.  P.  Whipple,  Essays  and  Reviews,  Vol.  I :  Shelley.  [Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co.]  1848. 

Walter  Bagehot,  Literary  Studies,  Vol.  I.      [Longmans.]     1879. 

Edward  Dowden,  Transcripts  and  Studies  :  Last  Words  on  Shelley. 
[Kegan  Paul,  Trench  &  Co.]  1888. 

,T.  C.  Shairp,  Aspects  of  Poetry:  Shelley  as  a  Lyric  Poet.  [Houghton. 
Mifflin  &  Co.]  1882. 

A.  C.  Swinburne,  Essays  and  Studies  :  Notes  on  the  Text  of  Shelley. 
[Chatto  &  Windus.]  187(5. 

Matthew  Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticism,  Second  Series.  [Macmillan.] 
1879.  (Criticism  of  Dowden's  Life,  Shelley's  character  as  a  man.) 

Leslie  Stephen,  Hours  in  a  Library,  Third  Series.  [Smith  &  Elder.] 
187!). 

George  E.  Woodberry,  Studies  in  Letters  and  Life :  Remarks  on 
Shelley.  [Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.]  1890. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  Ixi 


KEATS. 

EDITION'S  RECOMMENDED. 

The  Poetical  Works  of  Keats,  with  notes  by  Francis  T.  Palgrave. 
[Golden  Treasury  Series.]  (Containing,  in  convenient  form, 
most  of  the  important  poems.) 

Poetical  Works  of  John  Keats.  Editor,  William  T.  Arnold.  [Kegan 
Paul,  Trench  &  Co.]  1884-88. 

The  Poetical  Works  of  John  Keats.  H.  B.  Forman.  [Reeves  &  Tur- 
ner.] Third  edition,  1889.  (Full  notes  and  all  the  poems.) 

BIOGRAPHICAL. 

Sidney  Colvin,  Keats.     [English  Men  of  Letters  Series.]     1887. 

W.  M.  Rossetti,  Life  of  Keats.     [Great  Writers  Series,  Scott.]     1887. 

Sidney  Colvin,  Keats.     [Dictionary  of  National  Biography.] 

A.  C.  Swinburne,  Keats.     [Encyclopaedia  Britannica,  Ninth  Edition.] 

H.  Buxton  Forman,  editor,  The  Letters  of  John  Keats.     [Reeves  & 

Turner.]     1895. 
Sidney  Colvin,  editor,  Letters  of  John  Keats.     [Macmillan.]     1891. 

CRITICAL. 

Matthew  Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticism,  Second  Series.     [Macmillan.] 

1879. 
J   R.  Lowell,  Among  My  Books,  Vol.  II.     [Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.] 

1876.     (Some  statements  shown  to  be  false  in  the  light  of  later 

investigations.) 

A.  C.  Swinburne,  Miscellanies.     [Chatto  &  Windus.]     1886. 
G.  E.   Woodberry,  Studies  in  Letters  and  Life :  On  the  Promise  of 

Keats.     [Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.]     1890. 
W.  H.  Hudson,  Studies  in  Interpretation  :  Keats.     [Putnam.]     1896. 

(Excellent  presentation  of  Keats's  attitude  toward  modern  thought.) 
David  Masson,  Wordsworth,  Shelley,  and  Keats.     [Macmillan.]     1856. 

(Purely  intellectual  treatment.) 
Quarterly  Review,  April.   1818.     Endymion :  A  Poetic  Romance.     (A 

savage  criticism,  supposed  at  one  time  to  have  caused  the  deatli  of 

Keats.) 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  Ixiii 


BYRON. 

EDITIONS  RECOMMENDED. 

Childe  Harold,  edited  with  notes,  by  II.  F.  Tozcr.     [Clarendon  Tress 

Series.] 
The  Poetical  Works  of  Lord  Byron.     One  volume.     [Murray.]     1873. 

(Notes  by  Scott,  Moore,  Lockhart,  etc.) 
Lord  Byron's  Works  in  Prose  and  Poetry.     Edited  by  his  grandson, 

the  Earl  of  Lovelace.     [Murray.]     1897.    In  preparation. 

BIOGRAPHICAL. 

Roden  Noel,  Byron.     [Great  Writers  Series.]     1890. 
John  Nichol,  Byron.     [English  Men  of  Letters  Series.]     1890. 
William  Minto,  Byron.     [Encyclopaedia  Britannica,  Ninth  Edition.] 
Leslie  Stephen,  Byron.     [Dictionary  of  National  Biography.] 
The  Works  of  Lord  Byron.     Edited  by  W.  E.  Henley.     Volume  I., 
Letters,  1804-1813.     [Heinemann.]     1897.     (To  contain  (1)  Let- 
ters;  (2)  Journals  and  Memoranda;   (3)  Miscellanies.) 

CRITICAL. 

Matthew  Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticism,  Second  Series.     [Macmillan.] 

1879. 
E.  P.  Whipple,  Essays  and  Reviews,  Vol.  I.     [Hough ton,  Mifflin  & 

Co.]     1848. 

John  Morley,  Critical  Miscellanies,  Vol.  I.     [Macmillan.]      1877. 
H   A.  Taine,  History  of  English  Literature,  Vol.  IV.     [Henry  Holt  & 

Co.]     1871. 

A.C.Swinburne,!.  Essays  and  Studies.      [Chatto  &  AVindus.]     1876. 
2.  Miscellanies:  Wordsworth  and  Byron.     [Chatto 

&  Windus.]     1886.     (Violent  attack  upon  Byron  as  a  poet. ) 
Edinburgh   Review,    March,    1808.      Review  by    Lord    Brougham    of 

Hours    of    Idleness.     (Occasion  of   Byron's   English    Bards   and 

Scotch  Reviewers.) 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  Ixv 


BOOKS  OF  GENERAL  REFERENCE. 

Mrs.  M.  0.  Oliphant,  Literary  History  of  England  in  the  End  of  the 
Eighteenth  and  Beginning  of  the  Nineteenth  Century.  Three 
volumes.  [Macmillan. ]  1882.  (Easy  reading.) 

Edward  Dowden,  1.  Studies  in  Literature,  1789-1877.  [Kegan  Paul, 
Trench  &  Co.]  Fifth  edition,  1889. 

2.  The  French  Revolution   and  English  Literature. 
[Scrihner.]      1897. 

T.  Hall  Caine,  Cobwebs  of  Criticism.  [Stock.]  1883.  (A  review  of 
the  first  reviewers  of  Wordsworth.  Coleridge,  Shelley,  Keats, 
Byron.) 

G.  Saintsbury,  A  History  of  Nineteenth  Century  Literature.  [Mac- 
millan.] 1896. 

Thomas  De  Quincey,  Literary  Reminiscences  and  Biographical  Essays, 
1835-40.  [Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.]  (Especially  for  Wordsworth 
and  Coleridge.) 

Charles  Lamb,  Letters.  Edited  by  Alfred  Ainger.  [Macmillan.] 
1888.  (For  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth.) 

William  Hazlitt,  1.   The  Spirit  of  the  Age.      [Bohn.] 

2.  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets.      [Bohn.]     1818. 

Leigh  Hunt.  Autobiography.     Two  volumes.      [Harper.]      1850. 

The  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly  Reviews  and  Blackwood's  Magazine. 
(For  contemporary  criticism  on  the  various  poets.  Most  of  the 
important  essays  may  l>o  found  in  Early  Reviews  of  Great  Writers, 
ed.  Stevenson.  Camelot  Series.  Scott.) 

Thomas  Carlyle,  Reminiscences.  Edited  by  C.  E.  Norton.  [Mac- 
millan.] 


Alter  Boxall  (1S31). 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 


SELECTIONS    FROM   WORDSWORTH 


LINES 

COMPOSED  A  FEW  MILES  ABOVE  TINTERN  ABBEY,  OX  RE- 
VISITING THE  BANKS  OF  THE  WYE  DURING  A  TO  UK, 
JULY  13,  1798. 

Five  years  have  past;  five  summers,  with  the  length 
Of  five  long  winters!  and  again  I  hear 
These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain-springs 
With  a  soft  inland  murmur. — Once  again 
Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs, 
That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 
Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion;  and  connect 
The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 
The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 
Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view  10 

These  plots  of  cottage-ground,  these  orchard-tufts, 
Which  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruits. 
Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 
'Mid  groves  and  copses.    Once  again  I  see 
These  hedge-rows,  hardly  hedge-rows,  little  lines 
Of  sportive  wood  run  wild:   these  pastoral  farms, 
Green  to  the  very  door;  and  wreaths  of  smoke 
"  Sent  up,  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees! 


1  Original  and  early  editions  as  well  as  late  standard  texts  have  been  consulted  for 
these  selections,  and  in  general,  even  at  the  risk  of  inconsistency,  the  early  spelling, 
capitals,  and  punctuation  have  been  retained.  Such  details  help  to  re-create  the 
atmosphere  of  the  period  to  which  they  belong. 

1 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH 

With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem 

Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods,  20 

Or  of  some  Hermit's  cave,  where  by  his  fire 

The  Hermit  sits  alone. 

These  beauteous  forms, 
Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye: 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them, 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind, 
With  tranquil  restoration: — feelings  too  so 

Of  unremembered  pleasure:   such,  perhaps, 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.    Xor  less,  I  trust, 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift, 
Of  aspect  more  sublime;   that  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 

Of  all  this  unintelligible  world,  40 

Is  lightened: — that  serene  and  blessed  mood, 

In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on, — 

Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame 

And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 

Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 

In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul: 

While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 

Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 

We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 

Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh!  how  oft — •  co 

In  darkness  and  amid  the  many  shapes 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH  3 

Of  joyless  daylight;  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 
Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart — 
How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  1  turned  to  thee, 

0  sylvan  Wye!  thou  wanderer  thro'  the  woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee! 

And  now,  with  gleams  of  half-extinguished  thought, 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity,  eo 

The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again: 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years.  And  so  I  dare  to  hope, 
Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I  was  when  first 

1  came  among  these  hills;  when  like  a  roe 
I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams. 

Wherever  nature  led:  more  like  a  man  TO 

Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,  than  one 

Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.    For  nature  then 

(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days, 

And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 

To  me  was  all  in  all. — I  cannot  paint 

What  then  I  was.    The  sounding  cataract 

Haunted  me  like  a  passion :  the  tall  rock, 

The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 

Their  colours  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 

An  appetite;  a  feeling  and  a  love,  so 

That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 

By  thought  supplied,  nor  any  interest 

Unborrowed  from  the  eye. — That  time  is  past, 

And  all  its  aching  joys  are  nowr  no  more, 

And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.    Xot  for  this 

Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur;  other  gifts 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH 

Have  followed;  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe, 

Abundant  recompence.    For  I  have  learned 

To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 

Of  thoughtless  youth;   but  hearing  oftentimes  90 

The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 

Xor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 

To  chasten  and  subdue.    And  I  have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 

Of  elevated  thoughts;  a  sense  sublime 

Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 

And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man; 

A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels  100 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 

And  rolls  through  all  tilings.    Therefore  am  I  still 

A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods, 

And  mountains;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 

From  this  green  earth;  of  all  the  mighty  world 

Of  eye,  and  ear, — both  what  they  half  create, 

And  what  perceive;  well  pleased  to  recognise 

In  nature  and  the  language  of  the   sense, 

The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 

The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul  no 

Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor  perchance, 

If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay: 
For  thou  art  witli  me  here  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river;  thou,  my  dearest  Friend. 
My  dear,  dear  Friend;  and  in  thy  voice  I  catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.    Oh!  yet  a  little  while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once,  12° 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH  5 

My  dear,  dear  Sister!  and  this  prayer  1  make, 

Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 

The  heart  that  loved  her;  'tis  her  privilege, 

Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 

From  joy  to  joy:  for  she  can  so  inform 

The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 

With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 

With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 

Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 

Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all  iso 

The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 

Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 

Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 

Is  full  of  blessings.  Therefore  let  the  moon 

Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk; 

And  let  the  misty  mountain-winds  be  free 

To  blow  against  thee:  and  in  after  years, 

When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 

Into  a  sober  pleasure;  when  thy  mind 

Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms,  140 

Thy  memory  be  as  a  d\velling-place 

For  all  swreet  sounds  and  harmonies;  oh!  then, 

If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief. 

Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing  thoughts 

Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me, 

And  these  my  exhortations!  Nor,  perchance — 

If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 

Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these  gleams 

Of  past  existence — wilt  thou  then  forget 

That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream  iso 

We  stood  together;  and  that  I,  so  long 

A  worshipper  of  Nature,  hither  came 

Unwearied  in  that  service:   rather  say 

With  warmer  love — oh!  with  far  deeper  zeal 

Of  holier  love.    Nor  will  thou  then  forget,, 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH 

That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 
Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs, 
And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to  me 
More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy  sake! 


EXPOSTULATION  AND  REPLY. 

"  Why,  William,  on  that  old  grey  stone, 
Thus  for  the  length  of  half  a  clay, 
Why,  William,  sit  you  thus  alone, 
And  dream  your  time  away? 

"  Where  are  your  books? — that  light  bequeathed 
To  Beings  else  forlorn  and  blind! 
Lrp!  up!  and  drink  the  spirit  breathed 
From  dead  men  to  their  kind. 

"  You  look  round  on  your  Mother  Karth, 

As  if  she  for  no  purpose  bore  you ;  10 

As  if  you  were  her  first-born  birth, 

And  none  had  lived  before  you!  " 

One  morning  thus,  by  Esthwaite  lake, 
When  life  was  swcel.  I  knew  not  why. 
To  me  my  good  friend  Matthew  spake, 
And  thus  T  made  reply. 

"The  eye — it  cannot  choose  but  see; 
We  cannot  bid  the  car  be  still; 
Our  bodies  feel,  where'er  they  be. 
Against  or  with  our  will. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH  7 

"  Nor  less  I  deem  that  there  are  Powers 
Which  of  themselves  our  minds  impress; 
That  \ve  can  feed  this  mind  of  ours 
In  a  wise  passiveness. 

"'  Think  you,  'mid  all  this  mighty  sum 
Of  things  for  ever  speaking, 
That  nothing  of  itself  will  come, 
But  we  must  still  be  seeking? 

"  — Then  ask  not  wherefore,  here,  alone, 
Conversing  as  I  may,  30 

I  sit  upon  this  old  grey  stone, 
And  dream  my  time  away." 


Spring,  1798.] 


THE   TABLES   TURNED. 

AN    EVENING    SCENE    ON   THE    SAME    SUBJECT. 

Up!  up!  my  Friend,  and  quit  your  books; 
Or  surely  you'll  grow  double : 
Up!  up!  my  Friend,  and  clear  your  looks; 
Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble? 

The  sun,  above  the  mountain's  head, 

A  freshening  lustre  mellow 

Through  all  the  long  green  fields  has  spread, 

His  first  sweet  evening  yellow. 

Books!  'tis  a  dull  and  endless  strife: 
Come,  hear  the  woodland  linnet, 
How  sweet  his  music!  on  my  life, 
There's  more  of  wisdom  in  it. 


1798.] 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH 

And  hark!  how  blithe  the  throstle  sings! 
He,  too,  is  no  mean  preacher: 
Come  forth  into  the  light  of  things, 
Let  Nature  be  your  teacher. 

She  has  a  world  of  ready  wealth, 
Our  minds  and  hearts  to  bless — 
Spontaneous  wisdom  breathed  by  health, 
Truth  breathed  by  cheerfulness. 

One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 
May  teach  you  more  of  man, 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good, 
Than  all  the  sages  can. 

Sweet  is  the  lore  which  Nature  brings; 
Our  meddling  intellect 
Mis-shapes  the  beauteous  forms  of  things: — 
We  murder  to  dissect. 

Enough  of  Science  and  of  Art; 
Close  up  those  barren  leaves; 
Come  forth,  and  bring  with  you  a  heart 
That  watches  and  receives. 


"SHE   DWELT  AMOXtt   THE   UNTRODDEN 
WAYS." 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Heside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  Maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise 

And  very  few  to  love: 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 
Half  hidden  from  the  eye! 

— Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 
Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh, 

The  difference  to  me! 
199.] 


"I   TRAVELLED   AMONG  UNKNOWN   MEN." 

I  travelled  among  unknown  men, 

In  lands  beyond  the  sea; 
Nor,  England!  did  I  know  till  then 

What  love  I  bore  to  thee. 

'Tis  past,  that  melancholy  dream! 

Nor  will  I  quit  thy  shore 
A  second  time;  for  still  I  seem 

To  love  thce  more  and  more. 

Among  thy  mountains  did  I  feel 

The  joy  of  my  desire; 
And  she  I  cherished  turned  her  wheel 

Beside  an  English  fire. 

Thy  mornings  showed,  thy  nights  concealed 

The  bowers  where  Lucy  played; 
And  thine  too  is  the  last  green  field 

That  Lucy's  eyes  surveyed. 
1799.] 


10  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH 


"THREE  YEAES  SHE  GREW  IN  SUN  AND 
SHOWER." 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower, 
Then  Nature  said,  "  A  lovelier  flower 
On  earth  was  never  sown; 
This  Child  I  to  myself  will  take; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 
A  Lady  of  my  own. 

"  Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse:  and  with  me 

The  Girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 

In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower,  10 

Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

"  She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 
Or  up  the  mountain  springs; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute  insensate  things. 

"The  floating  douds  their  state  shall  lend 

To  her;   for  her  the  willow  bend;  20 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 

Even  in  the  motions  of  the  Storm 

Grace  that  shall  mould  the  Maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH  11 

"  The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 

To  her;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 

Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 

And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face.  & 

"  And  vital  feelings  of  delight 
Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 
Her  virgin  bosom  swell; 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live 
Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Thus  Nature  spake — The  work  was  done — 

How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 

This  heath,  this  calm,  and  quiet  scene;  40 

The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  be. 


Hartz  Forest,  1799.] 


COMPOSED   UPON   WESTMINSTER   BRIDGE, 
SEPTEMBER   3,   1802. 

[Written  on  the  roof  of  a  coach,  on  my  way  to  France. — "W.  W.] 

Earth  has  not  any  thing  to  show  more  fair: 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty: 
This  City  now  doth,  like  a  garment,  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning;    silent,  bare. 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 


12  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH 

Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky; 

All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 

Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep, 

In  his  first  splendour,  valley,  rock,  or  hill; 

Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep! 

The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will: 

Dear  God!  the  very  houses  seem  asleep; 

And  .all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still! 


"IT    IS    A    BEAUTEOUS    EVEX1XG,    CALM    AXD 
FKEE." 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free, 

The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Xun 

Breathless  with  adoration;   the  broad  sun 

Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  Sea: 

Listen!   the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 

And  dotli  with  his  eternal  motion  make 

A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear  Child!  dear  Girl!  that  walkest  with  me  here, 

If  thou  appear'st  untouched  by  solemn  thought, 

Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine: 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year; 

And  woi'shipp'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 

God  being  with  tbee  when  we  know  it  not, 

August,  1H02.] 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH  13 


ON   THE   EXTINCTION   OF   THE   VENETIAN 
REPUBLIC. 

Once  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  east  in  fee; 
And  was  the  safeguard  of  the  west:  the  worth 
Of  Venice  did  not  fall  Lelow  her  birth, 
Venice,  the  eldest  Child  of  Liberty. 
She  was  a  maiden  City,  bright  and  free; 
No  guile  seduced,  no  force  could  violate; 
And,  when  she  took  unto  herself  a  Mate, 
She  must  espouse  the  everlasting  Sea. 
And  what  if  she  had  seen  those  glories  fade, 
Those  titles  vanish,  and  that  strength  decay; 
Yet  shall  some  tribute  of  regret  be  paid 
When  her  long  life  hath  reached  its  final  day: 
Men  are  we,  and  must  grieve  when  even  the  Shade 
Of  that  which  once  was  great,  is  pass'd  away. 

August,  1802.] 


SEPTEMBER,   1802.    NEAR   DOVER. 

Inland,  within  a  hollow  vale,  I  stood; 

And  saw,  while  sea  was  calm  ajid  air  was  clear. 

The  coast  of  France — the  coast  of  France  how  near! 

Drawn  almost  into  frightful  neighbourhood. 

I  shrunk;  for  verily  the  barrier  flood 

Was  like  a  lake,  or  river  bright  and  fair, 

A  span  of  waters:  yet  what  power  is  there! 

What  mightiness  for  evil  and  for  good! 

Even  so  doth  God  protect  us  if  we  be 

Virtuous  and  wise.    Winds  blow,  and  waters  roll, 


14  SELECTIONS  PROM  WORDSWORTH 

Strength  to  the  brave,  and  Power,  and  Deity; 
Yet  in  themselves  are  nothing!    One  decree 
Spake  laws  to  them,  and  said  that  by  the  soul 
Only,  the  Nations  shall  be  great  and  free. 


LONDON,  1802. 

Milton! 1  thou  should'st  be  living  at  this  hour: 
England  hath  need  of  thce:    she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters:  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.    We  are  selfish  men; 
Oh!  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again; 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 
Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart: 
Thou  haclst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea: 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free, 
So  didst  thoii  travel  on  life's  common  way, 
In  cheerful  godliness;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 


"CHEAT  MEN  ITAVK  P.EEN  AMONG  US;  HANDS 
THAT    PKXNED." 

Clreat  men  have  been  among  us;  hands  that  penned 
And  tongues  that  uttered  wisdom — better  none: 
The  later  Sidney,  Marvel,  Harrington, 
Young  Vane,  and  others  who  called  Milton  friend. 
These  moralists  could  act  and  comprehend: 

1  Wordsworth  imputed  to  Milton  n  union  of  tenderness  and  imagination  far  nbovu 
other  poets,  and  felt  a  greater  kinship  with  him  than  with  others. 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH  15 

They  knew  how  genuine  glory  was  put  on; 

Taught  us  how  rightfully  a  nation  shone 

In  splendour:  what  strength  was,  that  would  not  bend 

But  in  magnanimous  meekness.    France,  'tis  strange, 

Hath  hrought  forth  no  such  souls  as  we  had  then. 

Perpetual  emptiness!   unceasing  change! 

No  single  volume  paramount,  no  code, 

No  master  spirit,  no  determined  road; 

But  equally  a  want  of  books  and  men! 

September,  1802.] 


"IT  IS  NOT  TO  BE  THOUGHT  OF  THAT  THE 
FLOOD." 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  Flood 
Of  British  freedom,  which,  to  the  open  sea 
Of  the  world's  praise,  from  dark  antiquity 
Hath  flowed,  "  with  pomp  of  waters,  unwithstood," 
Roused  though  it  be  full  often  to  a  mood 
Which  spurns  the  check  of  salutary  bands. 
That  this  most  famous  Stream  in  bogs  and  sands 
Should  perish;  and  to  evil  and  to  good 
Be  lost  forever.    In  our  halls  is  hung 
Armoury  of  the  invincible  Knights  of  old: 
We  must  be  free  or  die,  who  speak  the  tongue 
That  Shakespeare  spake:  the  faith  and  morals  hold 
Which  Milton  held. — In  everything  we  are  sprung 
Of  Earth's  first  blood,  have  titles  manifold. 

1802.] 


16  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH 


STEPPING   WESTWARD. 

[While  my  Fellow-traveller  and  I  were  walking  by  the  side  of  Loeh 
Ketterine,  one  fine  evening  after  sunset,  in  our  road  to  a  Hut  where, 
in  the  course  of  our  Tour,  we  had  been  hospitably  entertained  some 
weeks  before,  we  met,  in  one  of  the  loneliest  parts  of  that  solitary  re- 
gion, two  well-dressed  Women,  one  of  whom  said  to  us,  by  way  of 
greeting,  "  What,  you  are  stepping  westward  ?  "J 

"  What,  you  are  stepping  westward?" — "  Yea." 

-'Twould  be  a  u'ildish  destiny, 
If  we,  who  thus  together  roam 
In  a  strange  Land,  and  far  from  home, 
Were  in  this  place  the  guests  of  Chance: 
Yet  who  would  stop,  or  fear  to  advance, 
Though  home  or  shelter  he  had  none., 
With  such  a  sky  to  lead  him  on? 

The  dewy  ground  was  dark  and  cold; 

Behind,  all  gloomy  to  behold:  in 

And  stepping  westward  seemed  to  be 

A  kind  of  heavenly  destiny: 

I  liked  the  greeting:  'twas  a  sound 

Of  something  without  place  or  bound; 

And  seemed  to  give  me  spiritual  right 

To  travel  through  that  region  bright. 

The  voice  was  soft,  and  she  who  spake 

Was  walking  by  her  native  lake: 

The  salutation  had  to  me 

The  very  sound  of  courtesy:  20 

Its  power  was  felt:  and  while  my  eyo 

Was  fixed  upon  the  glowing  Sky, 


1803.] 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH  17 

The  echo  of  the  voice  enwrought 
A  human  sweetness  with  the  thought 
Of  travelling  through  the  world  that  lay 
Before  me  in  my  endless  way. 


THE    SOLITARY   REAPER. 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 
Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain; 
0  listen!  for  the  Vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound.1 

No  Nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 

More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands  10 

Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt, 

Among  Arabian  sands: 

A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 

In  spring-time  from  the  Cnckoo-bird, 

Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 

Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what,  she  sings? — 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 

For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 

And  battles  long  ago:  20 

'Wordsworth's  ear  was  peculiarly  alive  to  the  sounds  of  nature.    In  this  instance 
the  spirit  of  the  place  expresses  itself  in  the  music. 
2 


18  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 
Familiar  matter  of  to-day? 
Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 
That  has  been,  and  may  be  again? 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  Maiden  sang 

As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending; 

I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 

And  o'er  the  sickle  bending; — 

I  listened,  motionless  and  still; 

And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill,  so 

The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore, 

Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 

1803.] 


YARROW  UXVISITED. 

[See  the  various  Poems  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  upon  the  banks  of 
the  Yarrow;  in  particular,  the  exquisite  Ballad  of  Hamilton,  beginning 
"Busk  ye,  husk  ye,  iny  bonny,  bonny  Bride, 
Busk  ye,  husk  ye,  my  winsome  Marrow  !  "J 

From  Stirling  castle  we  had  seen 
The  mazy  Forth  unravelled; 
Had  trod  the  banks  of  Clyde,  and  Tay, 
And  with  the  Tweed  had  travelled; 
And  when  we  came  to  Clovenford. 
Then  said  my  "  winsome  Narrtnr" 
"  Whate'er  betide,  we'll  turn  aside. 
And  see  the  Braes  of  Yarrow.'' 

"  Let  Yarrow  folk,  frrtr  Selkirk  town, 

Who  have  been  buying,  selling,  10 

Co  back  in  Yarrow,  'tis  their  own; 

Each  maiden  to  her  dwelling! 


SELECTIONS   FROM    WORDSWORTH  19 

On  Yarrow's  banks  let  herons  feed, 
Hares  conch,  and  rabbits  burrow! 
But  we  will  downward  with  the  Tweed, 
Nor  turn  aside  to  Yarrow. 

"  There's  Galla  Water,  Leader  Ilaughs, 

Both  lying  right  before  us; 

And  Dryborough,  where  with  chiming  Tweed 

The  lintwhites  sing  in  chorus;  20 

There's  pleasant  Tiviot-dale,  a  land 

Made  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow: 

Why  throw  away  a  needful  day 

To  go  in  search  of  Yarrow  ? 

"  What's  Yarrow  but  a  river  bare, 

That  glides  the  dark  hills  under? 

There  are  a  thousand  such  elsewhere 

As  worthy  of  your  wonder." 

— Strange  words  they  seemed  of  slight  and  scorn; 

My  True-love  sighed  for  sorrow;  so 

And  looked  me  in  the  face,  to  think 

I  thus  could  speak  of  Yarrow! 

"  Oh!  green,"  said  I,  "  arc  Yarrow's  holms, 

And  sweet  is  Yarrow  flowing! 

Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock, 

But  we  will  leave  it  growing. 

O'er  hilly  path  and  open  Strath, 

We'll  wander  Scotland  thorough; 

But,  though  so  near,  we  will  not  turn 

Into  the  dale  of  Yarrow.  40 

"  Let  beeves  and  home-bred  kine  partake 
The  sweets  of  Burn-mill  meadow; 


20  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH 

The  swan  on  still  St.  Mary's  Lake 
Float  double,  swan  and  shadow!  • 
We  will  not  see  them;  will  not  go, 
To-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow; 
Enough  if  in  our  hearts  we  know 
There's  such  a  place  as  Yarrow. 

"  Be  Yarrow  stream  unseen,  unknown!  * 

It  must,  or  we  shall  rue  it:  so 

We  have  a  vision  of  our  own; 

Ah!   why  should  we  undo  it? 

The  treasured  dreams  of  times  long  past, 

We'll  keep  them,  winsome  Marrow! 

For  when  we're  there,  although  'tis  fair, 

'Twill  he  another  Yarrow! 

"  If  Care  with  freezing  years  should  come, 

And  wandering  seem  hut  folly, — 

Should  we  he  loth  to  stir  from  home, 

And  yet  be  melancholy:  eo 

Should  life  be  dull,  and  spirits  low, 

'Twill  soothe  us  in  our  sorrow, 

That  earth  lias  something  yet  to  show, 

The  bonny  holms  of  Yarrow !  " 

1803.] 


1  In  the  reserve  of  his  nature,  Wordsworth  always  held  himself  back  from  a  pleas- 
ure, in  order  to  enjoy  it  ill  moderation. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH  21 


"  ENGLAND  !  THE  TIME  IS  COME  WHEN  T1IOU 
SIIOULD'ST    WEAN." 

England!   The  time  is  come  when  thou  should'st  \vcan 

Thy  heart  from  its  emasculating  food; 

The  truth  should  now  be  better  understood; 

Old  things  have  been  unsettled;  we  have  seen 

Fair  seed-time,  better  harvest  might  have  been 

But  for  thy  trespasses;  and,  at  this  day, 

If  for  Greece,  Egypt,  India,  Africa, 

Aught  good  were  destined,  thou  would'st  step  between. 

England!  all  nations  in  this  charge  agree: 

But  worse,  more  ignorant  in  love  and  hate, 

Far — far  more  abject,  is  thine  Enemy: 

Therefore  the  wise  pray  for  thee,  though  the  freight 

Of  thy  offences  be  a  heavy  weight: 

Oh  grief  that  Earth's  best  hopes  rest  all  with  Thee! 

1803. 7 


"  THERE  IS  A  BONDAGE  WORSE,  FAR  WORSE, 
TO  BEAR." 

There  is  a  bondage  worse,  far  worse,  to  bear 
Than  his  who  breathes,  by  roof,  and  floor,  and  wall. 
Pent  in,  a  Tyrant's  solitary  Thrall: 
'Tis  his  who  walks  about  in  the  open  air. 
One  of  a  Nation  who,  henceforth,  must  wear 
Their  fetters  in  their  souls.    For  who  could  be, 
Who,  even  the  best,  in  such  condition,  free 
From  self-reproach,  reproach  that  lie  must  share 


22  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH 

With  Human-nature?    Never  be  it  ours 
To  see  the  sun  how  brightly  it  will  shine, 
And  know  that  noble  feelings,  manly  powers, 
Instead  of  gathering  strength,  must  droop  and  pine; 
And  earth  with  all  her  pleasant  fruits  and  flowers 
Fade,  and  participate  in  man's  decline. 

1803.] 


TO  THE  CUCKOO. 

0  blithe  New-comer!  I  have  heard, 

1  hear  thee  and  rejoice. 

0  Cuckoo!  shall  I  call  thee  Bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  Voice? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass 
Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear, 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 
At  once  far  off,  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  Yale 
Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers, 
Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  .Spring! 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 

No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 

A  voice,  a  mystery; 

The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  days 
T  listened  to:  that  Cry 
Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways 
In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH  23 

To  seek  tlicc  did  I  often  rove 
Through  woods  and  on  the  green; 
And  thou  wort  still  a  hope,  a  love; 
Still  longed  for,  never  seen. 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet; 
Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 

0  blessed  I>ird!  the  earth  \vc  pace 
Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial,  fairy  place, 
That  is  fit  home  for  Thee! 


1804.] 


"SHE  WAS  A  TIIAXTOM  OF  DELIGHT." 

[Written  at  Town-end,  Grasmere.  The  germ  of  this  poem  was  four 
lines  composed  as  a  part  of  the  verses  on  the  Highland  Girl.  Though 
beginning  in  this  way,  it  was  written  from  my  heart,  as  is  sufficiently 
obvious. — \V.  W.] 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight; 

A  lovely  Apparition,  sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  Twilight  fair; 

Like  Twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 

From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  Dawn; 

A  dancing  Shape,  an  Image  gay. 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  way-lay.  10 


24 


1804.] 


I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin-liberty; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet; 

A  Creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles.        20 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 

The  very  pulse  of  the  machine; 1 

A  Being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 

A  traveller  between  life  and  death; 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will,  s 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill; 

A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  planned 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 

And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 

With  something  of  angelic  light.  30 


1  Machine  :  compare  "The  Waggoner,"  Canto  IV.,  line  803. 

Forgive  me,  then  ;  for  I  had  been 
On  friendly  terms  with  this  Machine. 

The  progress  of  mechanical  industry  in  Britain  wince  tint  beginning  of  the  present 
century  has  given  a  more  limited,  and  purely  technical,  iiiL'iiiiing  to  the  word,  than  it 
bore  when  Wordsworth  used  it  iu  these  two  instances.  WM.  KNIUHT. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH  25 


THE  DAFFODILS. 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd., 

A  host,  of  golden  daffodils; 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 

And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 

They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 

Along  the  margin  of  a  bay:  10 

Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 

Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced;   but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee: 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 

In  such  a  jociind  company: 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought: 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood,  *o 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude;1 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 


1804.] 


1  These  two  lines  were  composed  by  Mrs.  Wordsworth. 


26  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH 


ODE  TO  DUTY. 

"  Jam  non  consilio  bonus,  sed  more  co  perductus,  ut  non  tantuin 
recte  facere  possim,  sed  nisi  recte  facere  non  possiin." 

[Tliis  Ode  is  on  the  model  of  Gray's  Ode  to  Adversity,  which  is  copied 
from  Horace's  Ode  to  Fortune. — WOHUSWOKTII.] 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God! 

0  Duty!  if  that  name  thou  love 

Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 

To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove; 

Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 

When  empty  terrors  overawe; 

From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free; 

And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 

Be  on  them ;  who,  in  love  and  truth,  10 

Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 

Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth: 

Glad  Hearts!  without  reproach  or  hlot; 

Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not: 

Oh!   if  through  confidence  misplaced 

They  fail,  thy  saving  arms,  dread  Power!  around  them  cast. 

Serene  will  he  our  days  and  bright, 

And  happy  will  our  nature  he, 

When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 

And  joy  its  own  security.  20 

And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 

Hven  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold. 

Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed: 

Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to  their  need. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH  27 

I,  loving  freedom.,  and  untried; 

No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 

Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 

Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust: 

And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 

Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred  so 

The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray; 

But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought: 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires: 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 

I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same.  40 

Stern  Lawgiver!  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace; 
Xor  know  we  any  thing  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face: 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  Thee,  are  fresh  and 
strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power! 

I  call  thee:  I  myself  commend  so 

Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour; 

Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end! 

Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wdse, 

The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice: 

The  confidence  of  reason  give; 

And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman  let  me  live! 

1805.] 


28  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH 


CHARACTER  OF  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR.1 

— Who  is  the  happy  Warrior?    Who  is  he 

That  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be  ? 

— It  is  the  generous  Spirit,  who,  when  brought 

Among  the  tasks  of  real  life,  hath  wrought 

Upon  the  plan  that  pleased  his  childish  thought: 

Whose  high  endeavours  are  an  inward  light 

That  makes  the  path  before  him  always  bright: 

Who,  with  a  natural  instinct  to  discern 

What  knowledge  can  perform,  is  diligent  to  learn; 

Abides  by  this  resolve,  and  stops  not  there,  10 

But  makes  his  moral  being  his  prime  care; 

Who,  doomed  to  go  in  company  with  Pain, 

And  Fear,  and  Bloodshed,  miserable  train! 

Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain; 

In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power 

Which  is  our  human  nature's  highest  dower; 

Controls  them  and  subdues,  transmutes,  bereaves 

Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their  good  receives: 

By  objects,  which  might  force  the  soul  to  abate 

Her  feeling,  rendered  more  compassionate;  20 

Is  placable — because  occasions  rise 

So  often  tliat  demand  such  sacrifice; 

More  skilful  in  self-knowledge,  even  more  pure, 

As  tempted  more;  more  able  to  endure, 

As  more  exposed  to  suffering  and  distress; 

Thenee,  also,  more  alive  to  tenderness. 

-'Tis  lie  whose  ia\v  is  reason:   who  depends 
Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends; 


1  Written  nfter  the  death  of  Nelson,  whose  name,  except  for  one  supposed  Mot, 
Wordsworth  would  have  wished  to  connect  with  the  poem  ;  some  elements  are 
borrowed  from  the  character  of  NVordsworth'n  nuilor  brother,  John,  who  had  been 
drowned  but  a  nhort  time  before. 


SELECTIONS   FROM   WORDSWORTH  29 

Whence,  in  a  state  where  men  are  tempted  still 
To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill,  so 

And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 
Uoth  seldom  on  a  right  foundation  rest, 
He  labours  good  on  good  to  fix,  and  owes 
To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he  knows: 
— Who,  if  he  rise  to  station  of  command, 
Eises  by  open  means;  and  there  will  stand 
On  honourable  terms,  or  else  retire, 
And  in  himself  possess  his  own  desire; 
Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to  the  same 
Keeps  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim;  40 

And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in  wait 
For  wealth,  or  honours,  or  for  worldly  state; 
Whom  they  must  follow;  on  whose  head  must  fall, 
Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come  at  all: 
Whose  powers  shed  round  him  in  the  common  strife, 
Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 
A  constant  influence,  a  peculiar  grace; 
But  who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 
Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  has  joined 
Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  human  kind,  so 

Is  happy  as  a  Lover;  and  attired 
With  sudden  brightness,  like  a  Man  inspired; 
And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict,  keeps  the  law 
In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  foresaw; 
Or  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed, 
Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need: 
—He  who,  though  thus  endued  as  with  a  sense 
And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence, 
Is  yet  a  Soul  whose  master-bias  leans 
To  homefelt  pleasures  and  to  gentle  scenes;  GO 

Sweet  images!  which,  wheresoe'er  he  be, 
Are  at  his  heart:  and  such  fidelity 
It  is  his  darling  passion  to  approve; 


30  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH 

More  brave  for  this,  that  he  hath  much  to  love: — 

'Tis,  finally,  the  Man,  who,  lifted  high, 

Conspicuous  object  in  a  Nation's  eye, 

Or  left  unthought-of  in  obscurity, — 

Who,  with  a  toward  or  untoward  lot, 

Prosperous  or  adverse,  to  his  wish  or  not  — 

Plays,  in  the  many  games  of  life,  that  one  TO 

Where  what  he  most  doth  value  must  be  won: 

Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay, 

Nor  thought  of  tender  happiness  betray; 

Who,  not  content  that  former  worth  stand  fast, 

Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last, 

From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpast: 

Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the  earth 

For  ever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth, 

Or  he  must  fall,  to  sleep  without  his  fame, 

And  leave  a  dead  unprofitable  name —  so 

Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  cause; 

And,  while  the  mortal  mist  is  gathering,  draws 

His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven's  applause: 

This  is  the  happy  Warrior;  this  is  He 

That  every  Man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be. 

180G.] 

"WITH  HOW  SAD  STEPS,  0  MOON,  THOU 
CLIMB'ST  THE  SKY." 

With  how  sad  steps,  0  Moon,  thou  climb'st  the  sky, 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face!  l 
Where  art  thou?  thou  so  often  seen  on  high 
Kunnfng  among  the  clouds  a  Wood-nymph's  race! 
Unhappy  Nuns,  whose  common  breath's  a  sigli 
Which  they  would  stifle,  move  at  such  a  pace! 


1  From  a  Bonnet  of  Sir  Philip  Sydney.    No.  XXXI.  of  "  Aptrophcl  and  Stella." 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH  31 

The  northern  Wind,  to  call  thee  to  the  chase, 
Must  blow  to-night  his  bugle  horn.    Had  J 
The  power  of  Merlin,  Goddess!    this  should  he: 
And  all  the  stars,  fast  as  the  clouds  were  riven, 
Should  sally  forth,  to  keep  thee  company, 
Hurrying  and  sparkling  through  the  clear  blue  heaven; 
But,  Cynthia!  should  to  thee  the  palm  be  given, 
Queen  both  for  beauty  and  for  majesty. 

1806.] 


"THE   WORLD  IS  TOO   MUCH   WITH   US:   LATE 
AND   SOON." 

x> 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us:  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers: 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon! 
This  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers; 
For  this,  for  every  thing,  we  are  out  of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not. — Great  God!  I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea. 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

1806.] 


32  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH 


"A   FLOCK   OF   SHEEP   THAT   LEISURELY 
PASS   BY." 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by, 
One  after  one;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds  and  seas, 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure  sky; 
I  have  thought  of  all  by  turns,  and  yet  do  lie 
Sleepless!  and  soon  the  small  birds'  melodies 
Must  hear,  first  uttered  from  my  orchard  trees; 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 
Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more,  I  lay. 
And  could  not  win  thee,  Sleep!  by  any  stealth: 
So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away: 
Without  Thee  what  is  all  the  morning's  wealth? 
Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and  day, 
Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous  health! 
1806.] 


"WHERE  LIES   THE  LAND  TO   WHICH  YON 
SHIP  MUST  CO?" 

Where  lies  the  Land  to  which  yon  Ship  must  go? 

Fresh  as  a  lark  mounting  at  break  of  day, 

Festively  she  puts  forth  in  trim  array; 

Is  she  for  tropic  suns,  or  polar  snow? 

What  boots  the  inquiry? — Neither  friend  nor  foe 

She  cares  for;  let  her  travel  where  she  may, 

She  finds  familiar  name?,  a  beaten  way 

Ever  before  her,  and  a  wind  to  blow. 

Yet  still  I  ask,  what  haven  is  her  mark? 

And,  almost  as  it  was  when  ships  were  rare, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH  33 

(From  time  to  time,  like  Pilgrims,  here  and  there 
Crossing  the  waters)  doubt,  and  something  dark, 
Of  the  old  Sea  some  reverential  fear, 
Is  with  me  at  thy  farewell,  joyous  Bark. 
1806.] 

ODE. 

INTIMATIONS   OF   IMMORTALITY    FROM    RECOLLECTIONS   OF 
EARLY    CHILDHOOD. 

The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 


There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 

To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore; — 
Turn  whereso'er  I  may, 

By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 

ii. 

The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes, 
And  lovely  is  the  Rose; 
The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare, 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 
3 


34  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH 

III. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 

And  while  the  young  lambs  bound  20 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief: 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong: 

The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep; 
Xo  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong; 
I  hear  the  Echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  Winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay; 

Land  and  sea  so 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  Beast  keep  holiday; — 

Thou  Child  of  Joy, 

Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy 
Shepherd  boy! 

IV. 

Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival. 

My  head  hath  its  coronal.  <o 

The  fulness  of  your  bliss.  T  feel— I  feel  it  all. 
Oh  evil  day!   if  I  were  sullen 
While  the  Farth  herself  is  adorning, 

This  sweet  May-morning. 
And  the  Children  are  culling 

On  every  side. 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
'Fresh  (lowers:   while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  Mother's  arm: — 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH  35 

I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear!  50 

— But  there's  a  Tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  Field  which  1  have  looked  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone: 
The  Pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat: 
Wliithcr  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream? 

v. 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting: 
The  Soul  that  rises  witlrus,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting,  eo 

And  cometh  from  afar: 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home: 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  He  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy;  TO 

The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  Priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

YI. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own ; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  Mother's  mind, 

And  no  unworthy  aim,  80 


36  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH 

The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  Foster-child,  her  Inmate  Man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

VII. 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 

A  six-years'  Darling  of  a  pigmy  size! 

See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 

Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 

With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes! 

See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart,  90 

Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 

Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song: 

Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside,  100 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  '  humorous  stage  ' 
Witli  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  witli  her  in  her  equipage; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

VIII. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  Soul's  immensity; 

Thou  best  Philosopher,  who  yel  dost  keep  no 

Thy  heritage,  thou  I 'lye  among  the  blind, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH  37 

That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind, — 

Mighty  Prophet!  Seer  blest! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 
Broods  like  the  Day,  a  Master  o'er  a  Slave, 
A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by;  120 

Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife? 
Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  tliee  with  a  weight, 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life! 

IX. 

0  joy!  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live,  iso 

That  nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive! 

The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction:   not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest. 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast: — 
Not  for  these  I  raise 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise:  14° 

"Rut  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  tilings. 
Fallings  from  us.  vanishing*: 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH 

Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realised, 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  Xature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  Thing  surprised: 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 

Which,  l)e  they  what  they  may,  iso 

Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence:  truths  that  wake, 

To  perish  never; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavour, 

Xor  Man  nor  Boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy!  100 

Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  Souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither, 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 


x. 

Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song! 
And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound!  no 

We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 

Yo  that  through  your  hearts  to-rlay 

Fed  the  gladness  ofthe  May! 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 

Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight, 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH  3D 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  ilower; 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  iiml 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind;  iso 

In  the  primal  sympathy 

Which  having  been  must  ever  be; 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  suffering; 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 


And  0,  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 

Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might; 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight  190 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I  love  the  Brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret, 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day 

Is  lovely  yet; 

The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live,  200 

Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears.1 

1803-1806.] 

1  Wordsworth  protests  that  he  does  not  mean  to  inculcate  a  belief  in  previous 
existence,  though  there  is  nothing  in  revelation  to  contradict  it. 


40  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH 


THOUGHT    OF   A   BRITON    ON    THE    SUBJUGA- 
TION OF  SWITZERLAND. 

Two  Voices  are  there;  one  is  of  the  sea, 

One  of  the  mountains;  each  a  mighty  Voice: 

In  both  from  age  to  age  thou  didst  rejoice, 

They  were  thy  chosen  music,  Liberty! 

There  came  a  Tyrant,  and  with  holy  glee 

Thou  fought'st  against  him;  but  hast  vainly  striven: 

Thou  from  thy  Alpine  holds  at  length  art  driven, 

Where  not  a  torrent  murmurs  heard  by  thee. 

Of  one  deep  bliss  thine  ear  hath  been  bereft: 

Then  cleave,  0  cleave  to  that  which  still  is  left; 

For,  high-souled  Maid,  what  sorrow  would  it  be 

That  Mountain  floods  should  thunder  as  before, 

And  Ocean  bellow  from  his  rocky  shore, 

And  neither  awful  Voice  be  heard  by  thee! 

1807.] 


SONG  AT  THE  FEAST  OF  BROUGHAM  CASTLE, 

UPON  THE  RESTORATION'  OF  LORD  CLIFFORD,  THE  SHEP- 
HERD, TO  THE  ESTATES  AND  HONOURS  OF  HIS  AN- 
CESTORS.1 

High  in  the  breathless  Hall  the  Minstrel  sate, 
And  Kmont's  murmur  mingled  with  the  Song. — 
The  words  of  ancient  time  T  thus  translate, 
A  festal  strain  that  hath  been  silent  lon<r: — 


1  During  the  Wars  of  the  Hoses,  the  Cliffords  hud  drawn  upon  themselves  the  hatred 
of  the  House  of  York  ;  in  particular  John  Lord  f'littord,  father  of  Henry,  the  subject 
of  this  poem,  had  murdered  the  young  son  of  the  Duke  of  York,  after  the  battle  of 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH  41 

"  From  town  to  town,  from  tower  to  tower, 

The  red  rose  is  a  gladsome  flower. 

Her  thirty  years  of  winter  past, 

The  red  rose  is  revived  at  last; 

She  lifts  her  head  for  endless  spring, 

For  everlasting  blossoming:  10 

Both  roses  flourish,  red  and  white: 

In  love  and  sisterly  delight 

The  two  that  were  at  strife  are  blended, 

And  all  old  troubles  now  are  ended. — 

J°y!  j°y  to  both!  but  most  to  her 

Who  is  the  flower  of  Lancaster! 

Behold  her  how  She  smiles  to-day 

On  this  great  throng,  this  bright  a,rray! 

Fair  greeting  doth  she  send  to  all 

From  every  corner  of  the  hall;  20 

But  chiefly  from  above  the  board 

Where  sits  in  state  our  rightful  Lord, 

A  Clifford  to  his  own  restored! 

"They  came  with  banner,  spear,  and  shield; 

And  it  was  proved  in  Bosworth-field. 

Xot  long  the  Avenger  was  withstood — 

Earth  helped  him  with  the  cry  of  blood: 

St.  George  was-f  or  us.  and  the  might 

Of  blessed  Angels  crowned  the  right. 

Loud  voice  the  Land  has  uttered  forth,  so 

We  loudest  in  the  faithful  north: 

Our  fields  rejoice,  our  mountains  ring, 

Our  streams  proclaim  a  welcoming; 

Our  strong-abodes  and  castles  see 

The  jrlorv  of  their  loyalty. 


Towton.  For  this,  his  lands  were  confiscated  ;  and  Henry  was  brought  up  in  con- 
cealment. He  was  restored  to  his  rights  after  twenty-four  years,  in  the  reijrn  of 
Henry  VII.,  who  by  his  marriage  with  Elizabeth  of  York,  united  the  factions  of  the 
Red  and  the  White  Roses. 


42  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH 

"  Ho\v  glad  is  Skipton  at  this  hour — 

Though  lonely,  a  deserted  Tower; 

Knight,  squire,  and  yeoman,  page  and  groom: 

We  have  them  at  the  feast  of  Brough'm.1 

How  glad  Pendragon1 — though  the  sleep  40 

Of  years  be  on  her! — She  shall  reap 

A  taste  of  this  great  pleasure,  viewing 

As  in  a  dream  her  own  renewing. 

Kejoiced  is  Brough,1  right  glad  I  deem 

Beside  her  little  humble  stream; 

And  she  that  keepeth  watch  and  ward 

Her  statelier  Eden's  course  to  guard; 

They  both  are  happy  at  this  hour, 

Though  each  is  but  a  lonely  Tower: — 

But  here  is  perfect  joy  and  pride  60 

For  one  fair  House  by  Emont's  side, 

This  day,  distinguished  without  peer 

To  see  her  Master  and  to  cheer — 

Him,  and  his  Lady-mother  dear! 

"  Oh!  it  was  a  time  forlorn 
When  the  fatherless  was  born — 
Give  her  wings  that  she  may  fly, 
Or  she  sees  her  infant  die! 
Swords  that  are  with  slaughter  wild 
Hunt  the  Mother  and  the  Child.  «> 

Who  will  take  them  from  the  light? 
—Yonder  is  a  man  in  sight- 
Yonder  is  a  house — but  where? 
Xo,  they  must  not  enter  there. 
To  the  oaves,  and  to  the  brooks. 
To  the  clouds  of  heaven  she  looks; 


1  These  "  Castles"  or  towers  of  defence,  relics  of  feudal  times,  have  been  alter- 
nately repaired  and  demolished  by  the  Cliffords  and  their  enemies.  They  were  a 
source  of  special  pride  in  the  family. 


SELECTIONS  PROM  WORDSWORTH  43 

She  is  speechless,  but  her  eyes 

Pray  in  ghostly  agonies. 

Blissful  Mary,  Mother  mild, 

Maid  and  Mother  undefiled,  TO 

Save  a  Mother  and  her  Child! 

"  Now  Who  is  he  that  bounds  with  joy 

On  Carrock's  side,  a  Shepherd-boy? 

No  thoughts  hath  he  but  thoughts  that  pass 

Light  as  the  wind  along  the  grass. 

Can  this  be  He  who  hither  came 

In  secret,  like  a  smothered  flame? 

O'er  whom  such  thankful  tears  were  shed 

For  shelter,  and  a  poor  man's  bread! 

God  loves  the  Child;  and  God  hath  willed  so 

That  those  dear  words  should  be  fulfilled, 

The  Lady's  words,  when  forced  away, 

The  last  she  to  her  Babe  did  say : 

'  My  own,  my  own,  thy  Fellow-guest 

I  may  not  be;  but  rest  thee,  rest, 

For  lowly  shepherd's  life  is  best! ' 

"  Alas!  when  evil  men  are  strong 

No  life  is  good,  no  pleasure  long. 

The  Boy  must  part  from  Moscdale's  groves, 

And  leave  Blencathara's  rugged  coves,  »o 

And  quit  the  flowers  that  summer  brings 

To  Glcndcramakin's  lofty  springs; 

Must  vanish,  and  his  careless  cheer 

Be  turned  to  heaviness  and  fear. 

— Give  Sir  Lancelot  Threlkcld  praise! 

Hear  it.  good  man,  old  in  days! 

Thou  tree  of  covert  and  of  rest 

For  this  young  Bird  that  is  distrest; 

Among  thy  branches  safe  he  lay, 


44  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH 

And  he  was  free  to  sport  and  play,  100 

When  falcons  were  abroad  for  prey. 

"  A  recreant  harp,  that  sings  of  fear 

And  heaviness  in  Clifford's  ear! 

I  said,  when  evil  men  are  strong, 

Xo  life  is  good,  no  pleasure  long, 

A  weak  and  cowardly  untruth! 

Our  Clifford  was  a  happy  Youth, 

And  thankful  through  a  weary  time, 

That  brought  him  up  to  manhood's  prime. 

• — Again  lie  wanders  forth  at  will,  no 

And  tends  a  Hock  from  hill  to  hill: 

His  garb  is  humble:  ne'er  was  seen 

Such  garb  with  such  a  noble  mien; 

Among  the  shepherd  grooms  no  mate 

Hath  he,  a  Child  of  strength  and  state! 

Yet  lacks  not  friends  for  simple  glee, 

Xor  yet  for  higher  sympathy. 

To  his  side  the  fallow-deer 

Came,  and  rested  without  fear; 

The  eagle,  lord  of  land  and  sea,  120 

Stooped  down  to  pay  him  fealty; 

And  both  the  undying  fish  tbat  swim  l 

Tlmuigh  "Howscale-tarii  did  wait  on  him; 

Tbe  pair  were  servants  of  his  eye 

In  their  immortality; 

And  glancing,  gleaming,  dark  or  bright, 

Moved  to  and  fro.  for  his  delight. 

I  le  knew  the  rocks  which  A  ngels  haunt 

Upon  the  mountains  visitant; 

lie  hath  kenned  them  taking  wing:  iso 

And  into  caves  where  Fairies  sing 

1  It  in  imat'ined  by  the  people  of  the  country,  that  there  ,irc  two  immortal  Fish,  in- 
habitant* of  thin  Turn,  which  Ik's  in  the  mountaiiiH  not  far  from  Thrclkt'ltl.— W.  W. 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH  45 

He  hath  entered;  and  been  told 

By  Voices  how  men  lived  of  old. 

Among  the  heavens  his  eye  can  see 

The  face  of  thing  that  is  to  be; 

And,  if  that  men  report  him  right, 

His  tongue  could  whisper  words  of  might. 

— Now  another  day  is  come, 

Fitter  hope,  and  nobler  doom; 

He  hath  thrown  aside  his  crook,  140 

And  hath  buried  deep  his  book; 

Armour  rusting  in  his  halls 

On  the  blood  of  Clifford  calls; — 

'  Quell  the  Scot/  exclaims  the  Lance — 

Bear  me  to  the  heart  of  France, 

Is  the  longing  of  the  Shield — 

Tell  thy  name,  thoii  trembling  Field; 

Field  of  death,  where'er  thou  be, 

Groan  thou  with  our  victory! 

Happy  day,  and  mighty  hour,  150 

When  our  Shepherd,  in  his  power, 

Mailed  and  horsed,  with  lance  and  sword, 

To  his  ancestors  restored 

Like  a  re-appearing  Star, 

Like  a  glory  from  afar, 

First  shall  head  the  flock  of  war!  " 

Alas!  the  impassioned  minstrel  did  not  know 

How,  by  Heaven's  grace,  this  Clifford's  heart  was  framed, 

How  he,  long  forced  in  humble  walks  to  go, 

Was  softened  into  feeling,  soothed,  and  tamed.  wo 

Love  had  he  found  in  huts  where  poor  men  lie; 
His  daily  teachers  had  been  woods  and  rills, 
The  silence  that  is  in  the  starry  sky, 
The  sleep  that  is  among  the  lonely  hills. 


46  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH 

In  him  the  savage  virtue  of  the  Race, 
Revenge,  and  all  ferocious  thoughts  were  dead: 
Nor  did  he  change;  but  kept  in  lofty  place 
The  wisdom  which  adversity  had  bred. 

Glad  were  the  vales,  and  every  cottage  hearth; 

The  Shepherd-lord  was  honoured  more  and  more;       no 

And,  ages  after  he  was  laid  in  earth, 

"  The  good  Lord  Clifford  "  was  the  name  he  bore. 

1807.] 


LAODAMIA. 

"  With  sacrifice  before  the  rising  morn 

Vows  have  I  made  by  fruitless  hope  inspired; 

And  from  the  infernal  Gods,  'mid  shades  forlorn 

Of  night,  my  slaughtered  Lord  have  I  required: 

Celestial  pity  I  again  implore;— 

Restore  him  to  my  sight — great  Jove,  restore!  " 

So  speaking,  and  by  fervent  love  endowed 

With  faith,  the  Suppliant  heavenward  lifts  her  hands; 

While,  like  the  sun  emerging  from  a  cloud, 

Her  countenance  brightens — and  her  eye  expands;  10 

Her  bosom  heaves  and  spreads,  her  stature  grows; 

And  she  expects  the  issue  in  repose. 

0  terror!   what  hath  she  perceived? — 0  joy! 
What  doth  she  look  on? — whom  dotli  she  behold? 
Her  Hero  slain  upon  the  beach  of  Troy? 
His  vital  presence?  his  corporeal  mould? 
]t  is — if  sense  deceive  her  not — 'tis  He! 
And  a  God  leads  him — winged  Mercury! 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH  47 

Mild  Hermes  spake — and  touched  her  with  his  wand 
That  calms  all  fear;  "  Such  grace  hath  crowned  thy  prayer, 
Laodamia!  that  at  Jove's  command  21 

Thy  Husband  walks  the  paths  of  upper  air: 
He  comes  to  tarry  with  thee  three  hours'  space; 
Accept  the  gift,  behold  him  face  to  face!  " 

Forth  sprang  the  impassioned  Queen  her  Lord  to  clasp; 

Again  that  consummation  she  essayed; 

But  unsubstantial  Form  eludes  her  grasp 

As  often  as  that  eager  grasp  was  made. 

The  Phantom  parts — but  parts  to  re-unite, 

And  re-assume  his  place  before  her  sight.  so 

"  Protesilaus,  lo!  thy  guide  is  gone! 
Confirm,  I  pray,  the  Vision  with  thy  voice: 
This  is  our  palace, — yonder  is  thy  throne; 
Speak,  and  the  floor  thou  tread'st  on  will  rejoice. 
Not  to  appal  me  have  the  Gods  bestowed 
This  precious  boon;  and  blest  a  sad  abode." 

"  Great  Jove,  Laodamia!  doth  not  leave 

His  gifts  imperfect: — Spectre  though  I  be, 

I  am  not  sent  to  scare  thee  or  deceive; 

Hut  in  reward  of  thy  fidelity.  40 

And  something  also  did  my  wortb  obtain; 

For  fearless  virtue  bringeth  boundless  gain. 

"  Thou  knowest,  the  Delphic  oracle  foretold 

That  the  first  Greek  who  touched  the  Trojan  strand 

Should  die;  but  me  the  threat  could  not  withhold: 

A  generous  cause  a  victim  did  demand; 

And  forth  I  leapt  upon  the  sandy  plain; 

A  self-devoted  chief — by  Hector  slain." 


48  SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH 

"  Supreme  of  Heroes — bravest,  noblest,  best! 

Thy  matchless  courage  I  bewail  no  more.,  50 

AVhich  then,  when  tens  of  thousands  were  deprest 

By  doubt,  propelled  thee  to  the  fatal  shore; 

Thou  found'st — and  I  forgive  thee — here  thou  art — 

A  nobler  counsellor  than  my  poor  heart. 

"  But  thou,  though  capable  of  sternest  deed, 

Wert  kind  as  resolute,  and  good  as  brave; 

And  he,  whose  power  restores  thee,  hath  decreed 

Thou  should'st  elude  the  malice  of  the  grave: 

Eedundant  are  thy  locks,  thy  lips  as  fair 

As  when  their  breath  enriched  Thessalian  air. 

"No  Spectre  greets  me, — no  vain  Shadow  Ihis: 
Come,  blooming  Hero,  place  thee  by  my  side! 
Give,  on  this  well-known  couch,  one  nuptial  kiss 
To  me,  this  day,  a  second  time  thy  bride!  " 
Jove  frowned  in  heaven:  the  conscious  Pnre;v  threw 
Upon  those  roseate  lips  a  Stygian  hue. 

"  This  visage  tells  thee  that  my  doom  is  past: 

Xor  should  the  change  be  mourned,  even  if  the  joys 

Of  sense  were  able  to  return  as  fast 

And  surely  as  they  vanish.    Earth  destroys  TO 

Those  raptures  duly — Erebus  disdains: 

Calm  pleasures  there  abide — majestic  pains. 

"Be  taught,  0  faithful  Consort,  to  controul 
Rebellious  passion:  for  the  (Jods  approve 
The  depth,  and  not  the  tumult,  of  the  soul; 
A  fervent,  not  ungovernable,  love. 
Thy  transports  moderate:   and  meekly  mourn 
When  T  depart,  for  brief  is  my  sojourn — 


SELECTIONS   FROM   WORDSWORTH  49 

"All,  wherefore? — Did  not  Hercules  by  force 

Wrest  from  the  guardian  Monster  of  the  tomb  so 

Alcestis,  a  reanimated  corse, 

Given  back  to  dwell  on  earth  in  vernal  bloom? 

Medea's  spells  dispersed  the  weight  of  years, 

And  vEson  stood  a  youth  'mid  youthful  peers. 

"  The  Gods  to  us  are  merciful — and  they 

Yet  further  may  relent:  for  mightier  far 

Than  strength  of  nerve  and  sinew,  or  the  sway 

Of  magic  potent  over  sun  and  star, 

Is  love,  though  oft  to  agony  distrest, 

And  though  his  favorite  seat  be  feeble  woman's  breast.       so 

"  But  if  thou  goest,  T  follow—"  "  Peace!  "  he  said,— 

She  looked  upon  him  and  \vas  calmed  and  cheered; 

The  ghastly  colour  from  his  lips  had  fled; 

In  his  deportment,  shape,  and  mien,  appeared 

Elysian  beauty,  melancholy  grace, 

Brought  from  a  pensive  though  a  happy  place. 

He  spake  of  love,  such  love  as  Spirits  feel 

In  worlds  whose  course  is  equable  and  pure; 

No  fears  to  beat  away — no  strife  to  heal — 

The  past  unsigned  for,  and  the  future  sure;  100 

Spake  of  heroic  arts  in  graver  mood 

Revived,  with  finer  harmony  pursued; 

Of  all  that  is  most,  beauteous — imaged  there 
In  happier  beauty;  more  pellucid  streams, 
An  ampler  ether,  a  diviner  air. 
And  fields  invested  with  purpureal  gleams: 
Climes  which  the  sun,  who  sheds  the  brightest  day 
Earth  knows,  is  all  unworthy  to  survey. 
4 


50  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH 

Yet  there  the  Soul  shall  enter  which  hath  earned 

That  privilege  by  virtue. — ''  111,"  said  he,  no 

"  The  end  of  man's  existence  I  discerned, 

Who  from  ignoble  games  and  revelry 

Could  draw,  when  we  had  parted,  vain  delight, 

While  tears  were  thy  best  pastime,  day  and  night; 

"  And  while  my  youthful  peers,  before  my  eyes 

(Each  hero  following  his  peculiar  bent) 

Prepared  themselves  for  glorious  enterprise 

By  martial  sports, — or,  seated  in  the  tent, 

Chieftains  and  kings  in  council  were  detained; 

What  time  the  fleet  at  Aulis  lay  enchained.  120 

"  The  wished-for  wind  was  given: — I  then  revolved 

The  oracle,  upon  the  silent  sea; 

And,  if  no  worthier  led  the  way,  resolved 

That,  of  a  thousand  vessels,  mine  should  be 

The  foremost  prow  in  pressing  to  the  strand, — 

Mine  the  first  blood  that  tinged  the  Trojan  sand. 

"  Yet  bitter,  oft-times  bitter,  was  the  pang 

When  of  thy  loss  I  thought,  beloved  Wife! 

On  thee  too  fondly  did  my  memory  hang. 

And  on  the  joys  we  shared  in  mortal  life, —  iso 

The  paths  which  we  had  trod — these  fountains,  flowers; 

My  new-planned  cities,  and  unfinished  towers. 

"  But  should  suspense  permit  the  Foe  to  cry, 
'  Behold  they  tremble! — haughty  their  array. 
Yet  of  their  number  no  one  dares  to  die  '? 
Tn  soul  T  swept  the  indignity  away: 
Old  frailties  then  recurred: — but  lofty  thought, 
In  act  embodied,  my  deliverance  wrought. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH  51 

"  And  Thou,  though  strong  in  love,  art  all  too  weak 

In  reason,  in  self-government  too  slow;  uo 

I  counsel  thee  by  fortitude  to  seek 

Our  blest  re-union  in  the  shades  below. 

The  invisible  world  with  thee  hath  sympathised; 

Be  thy  affections  raised  and  solemnised. 

"  Learn,  by  a  mortal  yearning,  to  ascend— 

Seeking  a  higher  object.    Love  was  given, 

Encouraged,  sanctioned,  chiefly  for  that  end; 

For  this  the  passion  to  excess  was  driven — 

That  self  might  be  annulled;  her  bondage  prove 

The  fetters  of  a  dream,  opposed  to  love."-  150 

Aloud  she  shrieked;  for  Hermes  re-appears! 

liound  the  dear  Shade  she  would  have  clung — 'tis  vain: 

The  hours  are  past — too  brief  had  they  been  years; 

And  him  no  mortal  effort  can  detain: 

Swift,  toward  the  realms  that  know  not  earthly  day, 

He  through  the  portal  takes  his  silent  way, 

And  on  the  palace  floor  a  lifeless  corse  She  lay. 

Thus,  all  in  vain  exhorted  and  reproved, 

She  perished;  and,  as  for  a  wilful  crime, 

By  the  just  Gods  whom  no  weak  pity  moved,  ico 

Was  doomed  to  wear  out  her  appointed  time, 

Apart  from  happy  Ghosts,  that  gather  flowers 

Of  blissful  quiet  'mid  unfading  bowers. 

—Yet  tears  to  human  suffering  are  due; 
And  mortal  hopes  defeated  and  o'erthrown 
Are  mourned  by  man,  and  not  by  man  alone, 
As  fondly  he  believes. — Upon  the  side 
Of  Hellespont  (such  faitli  was  entertained) 
A  knot  of  spiry  trees  for  ages  grew 


52  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH 

From  out  of  the  tomb  of  him  for  whom  she  died;       no 
And  ever,  when  such  stature  they  had  gained 
That  Ilium's  walls  were  subject  to  their  view, 
The  trees'  tall  summits  withered  at  the  sight; 
A  constant  interchange  of  growth  and  blight!  1 

1814.] 


YARROW    VISITED, 

SEPTEMBER,    1814. 

And  is  this — Yarrow? — 77//.s  the  Stream 

Of  which  my  fancy  cherished. 

So  faithfully,  a  waking  dream? 

An  image  that  hath  perished! 

O  that  some  Minstrel's  harp  were  near, 

To  utter  notes  of  gladness, 

And  chase  this  silence  from  the  air, 

That  fdls  my  heart  with  sadness! 

Yet  why? — a  silvery  current  flows 

With  uncontrolled  meanderings;  10 

Xor  have  these  eyes  by  greener  hills 

"P»cen  soothed,  in  all  my  wanderings. 

And,  through  her  depths,  Saint  .Mary's  Lake 

Is  visibly  delighted: 

For  not  a  feature  of  those  hills 

Is  in  the  mirror  slighted. 

A  blue  sky  bends  o'er  Yarrow  vale. 
Save  where  that  pearly  whiteness 


1  For  other  ending*  of  "  Liuxluinm"  consult,  Knight's  Wordsworth. 


SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH  53 

Is  round  the  rising  sun  difl'used, 

A  tender  hazy  brightness;  20 

Mild  dawn  of  promise!  that  excludes 

All  profitless  dejection; 

Though  not  unwilling  here  to  admit 

A  pensive  recollection. 


Where  was  it  that  the  famous  Flower 

Of  Yarrow  Vale  lay  bleeding? 

His  bed  perchance  was  yon  smooth  mound 

On  which  the  herd  is  feeding: 

And  haply  from  this  crystal  pool, 

Now  peaceful  as  the  morning,  so 

The  Water-wraith  ascended  thrice — 

And  gave  his  doleful  warning. 

Delicious  is  the  Lay  that  sings 

The  haunts  of  happy  Lovers, 

The  path  that  leads  them  to  the  grove, 

The  leafy  grove  that  covers : 

And  Pity  sanctifies  the  Verse 

That  paints,  by  strength  of  sorrow, 

The  unconquerable  strength  of  love; 

Bear  witness,  rueful  Yarrow!  40 


But  thou,  that  didst  appear  so  fair 

To  fond  imagination. 

Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day 

Her  delicate  creation: 

Meek  loveliness  is  round  thee  spread, 

A  softness  still  and  holy; 

The  grace  of  forest  charms  decayed. 

And  pastoral  melancholy. 


54  SELECTIONS  FROM   WORDSWORTH 

That  region  left,  the  vale  unfolds 

Rich  groves  of  lofty  stature,  so 

With  Yarrow  winding  through  the  pomp 

Of  cultivated  nature; 

And,  rising  from  those  lofty  groves, 

Behold  a  Ruin  hoary! 

The  shattered  front  of  Newark's  Towers, 

Renowned  in  Border  story. 

Fair  scenes  for  childhood's  opening  bloom, 

For  sportive  youth  to  stray  in; 

For  manhood  to  enjoy  his  strength; 

And  age  to  wear  away  in!  oo 

Yon  cottage  seems  a  bower  of  bliss, 

A  covert  for  protection 

Of  tender  thoughts,  that  nestle  there — 

The  brood  of  chaste  affection. 

How  sweet,  on  this  autumnal  day, 

The  wild-wood  fruits  to  gather, 

And  on  my  True-love's  forehead  plant 

A  crest  of  blooming  heather! 

And  what  if  I  en  wreathed  my  own! 

'Twere  no  offence  to  reason;  TO 

The  sober  Hills  thus  deck  their  brows 

To  meet  the  wintry  season. 

I  sec — but  not  by  sight  alone, 

Loved  Yarrow,  have  I  won  thec; 

A  ray  of  fancy  still  survives — 

ITcr  sunshine  plays  upon  thee! 

Thy  ever-youthful  waters  keep 

A  course  of  lively  pleasure; 

And  gladsome  notes  my  lips  can  breathe, 

Accordant  to  the  measure.  so 


SELECTIONS  PROM  WOUDSVVOIITH  55 

The  vapours  linger  round  the  Heights, 
They  melt,  and  soon  must  vanish; 
One  hour  is  theirs,  no  more  is  mine — 
Sad  thought,  which  I  would  banish, 
But  that  I  know,  where'er  1  go, 
Thy  genuine  image,  Yarrow! 
Will  dwell  with  me — to  heighten  joy, 
And  cheer  my  mind  in  sorrow. 


TO   A   SKYLARK. 

Ethereal  minstrel!  pilgrim  of  the  sky! 
Dost  thou  despise  the  earth  where  cares  abound? 
Or,  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and  eye 
Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy  ground? 
Thy  nest  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at  will, 
Those  quivering  wings  composed,  that  music  still! 

To  the  last  point  of  vision,  and  beyond, 
Mount,  daring  warbler!  that  love-prompted  strain 
('Twixt  thee  and  thine  a  never-failing  bond) 
Thrills  not  the  less  the  bosom  of  the  plain: 
Yet  might'st  thou  seem,  proud  privilege!  to  sing 
All  independent  of  the  leafy  spring.1 

Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady  wood; 

A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine; 

Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the  world  a  flood 

Of  harmony,  with  instinct  more  divine; 

Type  of  the  wise  who  soar,  but  never  roam: 

True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home! 


1825.] 


1  This  stanza  appeared  only  in  the  editions  of  1827-13.     In  1845  it  was  transferred 
to  "  A  Morning  Exercise." 


After  Northcote. 


S.   T.   COLERIDGE. 


SELECTIONS   FROM   COLERIDGE 

THE  EOLIAX  HARP. 

COMPOSED    AT   CLEVEDOX,    SOMERSETSHIRE. 

My  pensive  Sara!   thy  soft  cheek  reclined 

Thus  on  mine  arm,  most  soothing  sweet  it  is 

To  sit  beside  our  cot,  our  cot  overgrown 

With  white-flowered  Jasmin  and  the  broad-leaved  Myrtle 

(Meet  emblems  they  of  Innocence  and  Love!), 

And  watch  the  clouds,  that  late  were  rich  with  light. 

Slow  saddening  round,  and  mark  the  star  of  eve 

Serenely  brilliant  (such  should  wisdom  be) 

Shine  opposite!  How  exquisite  the  scents 

Snatched  from  yon  bean-field!  and  the  world  so  hushed!    10 

The  stilly  murmur  of  the  distant  Sea 

Tells  us  of  Silence. 

And  that  simplest  Lute. 

Placed  lengthways  in  the  clasping  casement,  hark! 
How  by  the  desultory  breeze  caressed. 
Like  some  coy  maid  half  yielding  to  her  lover. 
It  pours  such  sweet  upbraiding,  as  must  needs 
Tempt  to  repeat  the  wrong!   And  now.  its  strings 
P>oldlier  swept,  the  long  sequacious  notes 
Over  delicious  surges  sink  and  rise. 

Such  a  soft  floating  witchery  of  sound  ao 

As  twilight  Elfins  make,  when  they  at  eve 
Voyage  on  gentle  gales  from  Fairy-Laud. 
Where  Melodies  round  honey-dropping  flowers. 

57 


58  SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 

Footless  and  wild,  like  birds  of  Paradise, 

Nor  pause,  nor  perch,  hovering  on  untamed  wing! 

0  the  one  life  within  us  and  abroad. 

Which  meets  all  motion  and  becomes  its  soul, 

A  light  in  sound,  a  sound-like  power  in  light, 

Rhythm  in  all  thought,  and  joyance  everywhere — 

Methinks,  it  should  have  been  impossible  so 

Not  to  love  all  things  in  a  world  so  filled; 

Where  the  breeze  warbles,  and  the  mute  still  air 

Is  Music  slumbering  on  her  instrument. 

And  thus,  my  love!  as  on  the  midway  slope 
Of  yonder  hill  I  stretch  my  limbs  at  noon, 
Whilst  through  my  half-closed  eyelids  I  behold 
The  sunbeams  dance,  like  diamonds,  on  the  main, 
And  tranquil  muse  upon  tranquillity; 
Full  many  a  thought  uncalled  and  undetained, 
And  many  idle  flitting  phantasies,  40 

Traverse  my  indolent  and  passive  brain, 
As  wild  and  various  as  the  random  gales 
That  swell  and  flutter  on  this  subject  lute! 

And  what  if  all  of  animated  nature 
Be  but  organic  harps  diversely  framed, 
That  tremble  into  thought,  as  o'er  them  sweeps, 
Plastic  and  vast,  one  intellectual  breeze, 
At  once  the  Soul  of  each,  and  (Jod  of  All? 

But  thy  more  serious  eye  a  mild  reproof 
Darts.  0  beloved  woman!  nor  such  thoughts  co 

Dim  and  unhallowed  dost  thou  not  reject. 
And  biddest  me  walk  humbly  with  my  flod. 
Meek  daughter  in  the  family  of  Christ! 
Well  hast  thou  said  and  holily  dispraised 
These  shapings  of  the  unregcnerate  mind; 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE  59 

Bubbles  that  glitter  as  they  rise  and  break 

Ou  vain  Philosophy's  aye-babbling  spring. 

For  never  guiltless  may  I  speak  of  him, 

The  Incomprehensible!  save  when  with  awe 

I  praise  him,  and  with  Faith  that  inly  feels;  eo 

Who  with  his  saving  mercies  healed  me, 

A  sinful  and  most  miserable  Man, 

Wildered  and  dark,  and  gave  me  to  possess 

Peace,  and  this  Cot,  and  thee,  dear  honoured  Maid! 

August  20,  1795.] 


SONNET. 

TO    A    FRIEND    WHO    ASKED,    HOW    I    FELT   WHEN   THE 
NURSE    FIRST    PRESENTED    MY    INFANT   TO    ME. 

Charles!  my  slow  heart  was  only  sad,  when  first 
I  scanned  that  face  of  feeble  infancy: 
For  dimly  on  my  thoughtful  spirit  burst 
All  I  had  been,  and  all  my  child  might  be! 
But  when  I  saw  it  on  its  Mother's  arm. 
And  hanging  at  her  bosom  (she  the  while 
Bent  o'er  its  features  with  a  tearful  smile). 
Then  I  was  thrilled  and  melted,  and  most  warm 
Impressed  a  Father's  kiss:  and  all  beguiled 
Of  dark  remembrance  and  presageful  fear, 
I  seemed  to  see  an  angel-form  appear — 
'Twas  even  thine,  beloved  woman  mild! 
So  for  the  Mother's  sake  the  Child  was  dear, 
And  dearer  was  the  Mother  for  the  Child. 

1796.] 


60  SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 

THE   RIME   OF  THE   ANCIENT  MARINER.1 

IN   SEVEN   PAKTS. 

Facile  credo,  plures  esse  Naturas  invisibiles  quam  visibiles  in  rerum  universitate. 
Sed  horum  omnium  familiam  quia  nobis  enarrabit,  et  gradus  et  cognationes  et  dis- 
crimina  et  singulorum  munera  ?  Quid  agunt  ?  quae  loca  habitant  ?  Harum  rerum 
notitiam  semper  ambivit  ingenium  humanum,  nunquam  attigit.  Juvat,  interea,  non 
difflteor,  quandoque  in  animo,  tanquam  in  tabula,  majoris  et  melioris  mundi  imagi- 
nem  contemplari :  ne  mcns  assuefacta  hodiernse  vitee  minutiis  se  contrahat  mmis,  et 
tola  subsidat  in  pusillas  cogitationes.  Sed  veritati  interea  invigilandum  est,  modus- 
que  servandus,  ut  certa  ab  incertis,  diem  a  nocte,  distinguamus. 

T.  BURNET:  "Archaeol.  Phil.,"  p.  68. 

Argument. 

How  a  Ship  having  passed  the  Line  was  driven  by  storms  to  the  cold 
Country  toward  the  South  Pole ;  and  how  from  thence  she  made  her 
course  to  the  tropical  Latitude  of  the  Great  Pacific  Ocean ;  and  of  the 
strange  things  that  befell ;  and  in  what  manner  the  Ancyent  Marinere 
came  back  to  his  own  Country.  [1798.] 

PART  I. 
An  ancient  It  is  an  ancient  Mariner, 

Mariner  meet-  ,  .  .     . 

eth  three  Gai-  And  he  stoppeth  one  oi  three. 

lants  bidden  to  ,          ,      ,. 

a  wedding-  By  thy  long  grey  beard  and  glittering  eye, 

feast,  and  de-  ,  , 

tainethone.  IS  o\v  wlieretore  stopp  st  thou  mer 

The  Bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide, 
And  I  am  next  of  kin; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set: 
May'st  hear  the  merry  din.' 


1  This  poem  formed  the  beginning  of  "  Lyrical  Ballads"  as  first  printed.  For  Its 
genesis  see  "  Biotrraphia  LUeraria,"  Chap.  XIV.,  and  the  notes  of  Campbell's  edition 
of  "  Coleridge's  Poetical  Works."  [Macmillan.]  The  text  here  given  is  approximately 
that  of  the  "  Lyrical  Ballads,"  edition  of  1ROO.  For  the  original  version,  1798,  with 
archaic  spelling  and  many  variations  in  the  text,  see  Appendix  E  of  Campbell's 
Coleridge. 
The  marginal  glosses  were  added  in  "Sibylline  Leaves,"  1817. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 


61 


The  Wedding- 
Guest  is  spell- 
bound by  the 
eye  of  the  old 
seafaring 
man,  and  con- 
strained to 
hear  his  tale. 


The  Mariner 
tells  how  the 
ship  sailed 
southward 
with  a  pood 
wind  and  fair 
weather,  till 
it  reached  the 
Lane. 


The  Wedding- 
Guest  heareth 
the  bridal 
music ;  but 
the  Mariner 
continueth  his 
tale. 


He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand, 
'  There  was  a  ship,'  quoth  he.  10 

'  Hold  off!   unhand  me,  grey-beard  loon! ' 
Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 

Pie  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye — 
The  Wedding-Guest  stood  still, 
And  listens  like  a  three  years'  child: 
The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  Wedding-Guest  sat  on  a  stone: 

He  cannot  choose  but  hear; 

And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 

The  bright-eyed  Mariner.'  20 

'  The  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbour  cleared, 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 

Below  the  lighthouse  top. 

The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he! 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 


Higher  and  higher  every  day, 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon — 

The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his  breast, 

For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall, 
Red  as  a  rose  is  she; 
Xodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 
The  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  Wedding-Guest  he  beat  his  breast, 
Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear: 


30 


62 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 


The  ship 
drawn  by  a 
storm  toward 
the  south  pole. 


The  land  of 
ice,  and  of 
fearful 

sounds,  where 
no  living 
thing  was  to  be 
seen. 


Till  a  great 
sea-bird, 
called  the 
Albatrosn, 
came  through 
the  snow-fog, 
and  wan  re- 
ceived with 
great  joy  and 
hospitality. 


And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 

The  bright-eyed  Mariner.  40 

'  And  now  the  Storm-Blast  came,  and  he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong: 
He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings, 
And  chased  us  south  along. 

With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow, 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 

Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe, 

And  forward  bends  his  head, 

The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roared  the  blast, 

And  southward  aye  we  fled.  BO 

And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow, 
And  it  grew  wondrous  cold: 
And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  by, 
As  green  as  emerald. 

And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  clifts 
Did  send  a  dismal  sheen: 
Xor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken — 
The  ice  was  all  between. 

The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 
The  ice  was  all  around :  co 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and  howled, 
Like  noises  in  a  swound! 

At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross, 
Thorough  the  fog  it  came: 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul, 
We  hailed  it  in  (Jod's  name. 

It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat, 
And  round  and  round  it  flew. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 


f>3 


And  lo !  the 
Albatross 
pro  vet  h  a  bird 
of  good  omen, 
and  followeth 
the  ship  as  it 
returned 
northward, 
through  tog 
and  floating 
ice. 


The  ancient 
Mariner 
inhospitably 
killeth  the 
pious  bird  of 
good  ouien. 


The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit; 

The  helmsman  steered  us  through!  TO 

And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind; 
The  Albatross  did  follow, 
And  every  day,  for  food  or  play, 
Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo! 

In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud, 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine; 

Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke  white, 

Glimmered  the  white  moon-shine.' 

'  God  save  thee,  ancient  Mariner! 
From  the  fiends,  that  plague  thee  thus! —          so 
Why  look'st  thou  so?  ' — With  my  cross-bow 
I  shot  the  Albatross. 


His  ship- 
mates cry  out 
against  the 
ancient  Mari- 
ner, for  killing 
the  bird  of 
good  luck. 


PART   II. 

The  sun  now  rose  upon  the  right: 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind, 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 
Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 
Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo! 

And  I  had  done  a  hellish  thing, 

And  it  would  work  'em  woe: 

For  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

Ah  wretch!   said  they,  the  bird  to  slay, 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow! 


90 


64 


SELECTIONS  FROM   COLERIDGE 


But  when  the 
fog  cleared 
oft,  they  jus- 
tify the  same, 
and  thus  make 
themselves 
accomplices 
in  the  crime. 


The  fair  breeze 
continues ;  the 
ship  enters  the 
Pacific  Ocean, 
and  sails  north- 
ward, even  till 
it  reaches  the 
Line. 


The  ship  hath 
been  suddenly 
becalmed. 


Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head, 
The  glorious  Sun  uprist: 
Then  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 
That  brought  the  fog  and  mist.  i 

'Twas  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  slay, 
That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 

The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew, 
The  furrow  followed  free:  l 
We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 
Into  that  silent  sea. 

Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  down, 

'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be; 

And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 

The  silence  of  the  sea!  i 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 
The  bloody  Sun,  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 
No  bigger  than  the  Moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day. 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 


And  the  Al- 
batross begins 
to  be  avenged. 


Water,  water,  every  where, 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink; 
Water,  water,  every  where, 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 


120 


1  This  in  the  original  reading.  In  "  Sibylline  Leaves."  Coleridge  having  observed 
that  this  wan  the  appearance  as  seen  by  a  spectator  from  the  shore  or  from  another 
vescel,  changed  the  line  to : 

The  furrow  strcam'd  off  free. 
In  1S'28  he  replaced  the  more  euphonious,  if  less  correct  form. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 


65 


A  Spirit  had  fol- 
lowed them ; 
one  of  the  invis- 
ible inhabitants 
of  this  planet, 
neither  departed 
souls  nor  an- 
gels ;  concern- 
ing whom  the 
learned  Jew, 
Josephus,  and 
the  Platonic 
C'onstantinopol- 
itan,  Michael 
Psellus,  may 
bo  consulted. 
They  are  very 
numerous,  and 
there  is  no 
climate  or  ele- 
ment without 
oue  or  more. 


The  ship- 
mates in  their 
sore  distress, 
would  fain 
throw  the 
whole  iiuilt  on 
the  ancient 
Mariner :  in 
sign  whereof 
they  hang  the 
dea'd  sea-bird 
round  his  neck. 


The  ancient 
Mariner  be- 
holdeth  a  sign 
in  the  element 
afar  off. 


The  very  deep  did  rot:  ()  Christ! 
That  ever  this  should  be! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 
The  death-tires  danced  at  night; 
The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils, 
Burnt  green,  and  blue  and  wljite. 

And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  Spirit  that  plagued  us  so: 
Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought, 
Was  withered  at  the  root  ; 
We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

Ah!  well-a-day!  what  evil  looks 
If  ad  I  from  old  and  young! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  Albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 


PART   III. 

There  passed  a  weary  time.    Each  throat 

Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye. 

A  weary  time!  a  weary  time! 

How  glazed  each  weary  eye! 

When  looking  westward,  I  beheld 

A  something  in  the  sky. 

At  first  it  seemed  a  little  speck. 
And  then  it  seemed  a  mist; 


130 


140 


66 


At  its  nearer 
approach,  it 
seemeth  him 
to  be  a  ship  ; 
and  at  a  dear 
ransom  he 
freeth  his 
speech  from 
the  bonds  of 
thirst. 


A  flash  of  joy  : 


And  horror 
follows.    For 
can  it  be  a 
ship  that 
comes  onward 
without. 'wind 
or  tide '! 


It  secmeth 
him  but  the 
skeleton  of  a 
ship. 


It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 
A  certain  shape,  I  wist. 

A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist! 
And  still  it  neared  and  neared: 
As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite, 
It  plunged  and  tacked  and  veered. 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 
We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail; 
Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood! 
I  bit  my  arm,  I  sucked  the  blood,  ieo 

And  cried,  A  sail!  a  sail! 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 
Agape  they  heard  me  call: 
Gramercy!  they  for  joy  did  grin, 
And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in, 
As  they  were  drinking  all. 

See!  see!  (I  cried)  she  tacks  no  more! 

Hither  to  work  us  weal: 

Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide, 

She  steadies  with  upright  keel!  no 

The  western  wave  was  all  a-flame, 

The  day  was  well  nigh  done! 

Almost  upon  the  western  wave 

Rested  the  broad  bright  Sun: 

When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 

Betwixt  UP  and  the  Sun. 

And  straight  the  Sun  was  flecked  with  bars, 
(Heaven's  Mother  send  us  grace!) 
As  if  through  a  dungeon-grate  he  peered, 
With  broad  and  burning  face.  iso 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 


67 


And  its  ribs 
are  seen  as 
bars  on  the 
face  of  the  set- 
ting Sun. 
The  Spectre- 
Woman  and  her 
Death-mate, 
and  no  other  on 
board  the  skel- 
eton-ship. 

Like  vessel, 
like  crew ! 


Death  and 
Life-in- 
Death  have 
diced  for  the 
ship's  crew, 
and  she  (the 
latter)  winneth 
the  ancient 
Mariner. 


No  twilight 
within  the 
courts  of  the 
Sun. 


At  the  rising 
of  the  Moon, 


Alas!  (thought  I,  and  my  heart  boat  loud) 
How  fast  she  nears  and  nears! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  Sun, 
Like  restless  gossameres? 

Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the  Sun 
Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate? 
And  is  that  Woman  all  her  crew? 
Is  that  a  Death?  and  are  there  two? 
Is  Death  that  Woman's  mate?  1 

Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free,  w 

Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold: 

Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy, 

The  Night-mare  Life-in-Death  was  she, 

Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

The  naked  hulk  alongside  came, 

And  the  twain  were  casting  dice; 

'  The  game  is  done!    I've  won,  I've  won! ' 

Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

The  Sun's  rim  dips;  the  stars  rush  out: 

At  one  stride  comes  the  dark;  200 

With  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea, 

Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 

We  listened  and  looked  sideways  up! 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup, 

My  life-blood  seemed  to  si])! 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night. 

The  steersman's  face  by  his  lamp  gleamed  white; 


1  In  the  edition  of  1798,  the  account  of  Death  and  the  Woman  was  much  more 
horrible,  as  was  the  case  also  in  the  first  draft  of  the  description  of  Oeraldine  in 
"  Christabel "  ;  later;  Coleridge  with  his  flue  perceptions  saw  that  it  would  be  more 
effective  not  to  present  too  distinct  a  visual  image,  but  to  leave  more  to  the  imagi- 
nation. 


68 


One  after 
auother, 


His  shipmates 
drop  down 
dead. 


But  Life-in- 
Death  he- 
pins  her  work 
on  the  ancient 
Mariner. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 

From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip — 

Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 

The  horned  Moon,  with  one  bright  star         210 

Within  the  nether  tip.1 

One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged  Moon, 
Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh, 
Each  turned  his  face  with  a  ghastly  pang, 
And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 

Four  times  fifty  living  men, 
(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan) 
With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump, 
They  dropped  down  one  by  one. 

The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly, —  220 

They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe! 

And  every  soul,  it  passed  me  by, 

Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow! 


PART   IV. 


The  Wedding- 
Guest  f  caret  h 
that  a  Spirit  is 
talking  to  him ; 


{ I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner! 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand! 

And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown, 

As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand.2 

I  foar  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye. 
And  thy  skinny  hand,  so  brown.'— 


1  Coleridge  had  heard  of  a  "  superstition  among  sailors  that  something  evil  is 
about  to  happen  whenever  a  star  dogs  the  moon."  Perhaps  it  is  hardly  necessary  to 
rail  attention  to  the  fact  that  a  star  can  never  be  seen  between  the  horns  of  the  cres- 
cent moon. 

3  For  the  last  two  lines  of  this  stanza  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  Wordsworth.  — S.  T.  C. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 


G9 


But  the  an- 
cient Mariner 
assureth  him 
of  his  bodily 
life,  and  pro- 
ceedeth  to  re- 
late his  horri- 
bfc  penance. 


He  despiseth 
the  creatures 
of  the  calm. 


And  envieth 
that  they 
should  live, 
and  so  many 
lie  dead. 


230 


But  the  curse 
liveth  for  him 
in  the  eye  of 
the  dead  men. 


240 


Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  Wedding-Guest! 
This  body  dropt  not  down. 

Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 
Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea! 
And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 

The  many  men,  so  beautiful! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie: 

And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 

Lived  on;  and  so  did  I. 

I  looked  upon  the  rotting  sea, 
And  drew  my  eyes  away; 
I  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck, 
And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

I  looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray; 
But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht, 
A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 


I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat: 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the 

sky  250 

Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye, 
And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 

The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs, 
Xor  rot  nor  reek  did  they: 
The  look  with  which  they  looked  on  me 
Had  never  passed  away. 

An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 
A  spirit  from  on  high; 


70 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 


In  his  loneliness 
and  fixedness  he 
yearneth  tow- 
ards the  jour- 
neying Moon, 
and  the  stars 
that  still  so- 
journ, yet  still 
move  ouward ; 
and  everywhere 
the  blue  sky  be- 
longs to  them, 
and  is  their  ap- 
pointed rest, 
and  their  native 
country  and 
their  own  nat- 
ural homes, 
which  they  enter 
unannounced, 
as  lords  that  are 
certainly  ex- 
pected, and  yet 
there  is  a  silent 
joy  at  their  ar- 
rival. 

By  the  light  of 
the  Moon  he 
beholdeth 
God's  creat- 
ures of  the 
great  calm. 


But  oh!  more  horrible  than  that 
Is  a  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye!  200 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  1  saw  that  curse, 
And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

The  moving  Moon  went  up  the  sky, 
And  no  where  did  abide: 
Softly  she  was  going  up, 
And  a  star  or  two  beside — 

Her  beams  bemocked  the  sultry  main, 
Like  April  hoar-frost  spread; 
But  where  the  ship's  huge  shadow  lay, 
The  charmed  water  burnt  alway  270 

A  still  and  awful  red. 

Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship, 

I  watched  the  water-snakes: 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white, 

And  when  they  reared,  the  elfish  light 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 


Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I- watched  their  rich  attire: 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black. 

They  coiled  and  swam;  and  every  track    2so 

AVas  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 


Their  beauty 
and  their 
happiness. 


He  blesseth 
them  in  his 
heart. 


0  happy  living  things!   no  tongue 

Their  beauty  might  declare: 

A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart, 

And  T  blessed  them  unaware: 

Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware! 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 


71 


The  spell  be- 
gins to  break. 


The  selfsame  moment  I  could  pray; 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 
Like  lead  into  the  sea. 


290 


By  grace  of 
the  holy 
Mother,  the 
ancient  Mari- 
ner is  refreshed 
with  rain. 


PART  V. 

Oh  sleep!  it  is  a  gentle  thing, 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole! 
To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given! 
She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  Heaven, 
That  slid  into  my  soul. 

The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck, 

That  had  so  long  remained, 

I  dreamt  that  they  were  filled  with  dew; 

And  when  I  awoke,  it  rained.  soo 

My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold, 
My  garments  all  were  dank; 
Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 
And  still  my  body  drank. 

I  moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs: 
I  was  so  light — almost 
I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep, 
And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 


He  heareth 
sounds,  and 
seeth  strange 
sights  and 
commotions  in 
the  sky  and 
the  element. 


And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind: 
It  did  not  come  anear; 
But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails, 
That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 


310 


The  upper  air  burst  into  life! 
And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen, 


72  SELECTIONS  PROM  COLERIDGE 

To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about! 
And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 
The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  loud, 
And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge; 
And  the  rain  poured  down  from  one  black  cloud; 
The  Moon  was  at  its  edge.  321 

The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 
The  Moon  was  at  its  side: 
Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 
The  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag, 
A  river  steep  and  wide. 

iS* °£        The  lolld  wiml  never  Cached  the  ship, 
EdTlid"          Vet  now  the  sh i p  moved  on ! 
thyhi'p  moves      ]>encath  the  lightning  and  the  Moon 

The  dead  men  gave  a  groan.  sso 

They  groaned,  they  stirred,  they  all  uprose, 
Xor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes; 
It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream, 
To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

The  helmsman  steered,  the  ship  moved  on; 

Yet  never  a  breexe  up-blew; 

The  mariners  all  "gan  work  the  ropes, 

Where  they  were  wont  to  do; 

They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tools — 

AYe  were  a  ghastly  crew.  340 

The  body  of  my  brother's  son 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee: 
The  body  and  I  pulled  at  one  rope, 
But  he  said  nought  to  me. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 


73 


But  not  by 
the  souls  of 
the  ineu,  uor 
by  dieinons  of 
earth  or  mid- 
dle air,  but  by 
a  blessed  troop 
of  angelic 
spirits,  sent 
down  by  the 
invocation  of 
the  guardian 
saint. 


'  I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner! ' 
Be  calm,  thou  Wedding-Guest! 
'Twas  not  those  souls  that  lied  in  pain, 
Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 
But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest: 

For  when  it  dawned — they  dropped  their  arms, 
And  clustered  round  the  mast;  351 

Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  their  mouths, 
And  from  their  bodies  passed. 

Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound, 
Then  darted  to  the  Sun; 
Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again, 
Now  mixed,  now  one  by  one. 


Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the  sky 
I  heard  the  sky-lark  sing; 
Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are, 
How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and  air 
With  their  sweet  jargoning! 


360 


And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute; 
And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song, 
That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

It  ceased;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on, 
Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe: 


370 


SELECTIONS  PROM   COLERIDGE 


The  lonesome 
Spirit  from  the 
south-pole 
carries  on  the 
ship  as  far  as 
the  Line,  in 
obedience  to 
the  angelic 
troop,  T>ut 
still  requireth 
vengeance. 


The  Polar 
Spirit's  fel- 
low-d  icmons, 
the  invisible 
inhabitants  of 
the  element, 
take  part  in 
hi*  wrong ; 
and  two  of 
them  relate, 
one  to  the 
other,  that 
penance  long 
and  heavy  for 
the  ancient 
Mariner  hath 
been  accorded 
to  the  Polar 
Spirit,  who 
returneth 
southward. 


Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship, 
Moved  onward  from  beneath. 

Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep, 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
The  spirit  slid:  and  it  was  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 
The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune 
And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

The  Sun,  right  up  above  the  mast, 
Had  fixed  her  to  the  ocean: 
But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  stir, 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion — 
Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  length 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 

Then  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go, 
She  made  a  sudden  bound: 
It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head, 
And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 

How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 
I  have  not  to  declare; 
But  ere  my  living  life  returned, 
I  heard  and  in  my  soul  discerned 
Two  voices  in  the  air. 

'Is  it  he?'  quoth  one,  '  Ts  this  the  man? 
By  him  who  died  on  cross. 
With  his  cruel  bow  lie  laid  full  low, 
The  harmless  Albatross. 

The  spirit  who  bidet h  by  himself 
In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 
Who  shot  him  with  his  bow.' 


380 


390 


SELECTIONS  PROM  COLERIDGE 

The  other  was  a  softer  voice, 

As  soft  as  honey-dew: 

Quoth  he,  (  The  man  hath  penance  done, 

And  penance  more  will  do.' 


75 


PART  VI. 

FIRST    VOICE. 


'But  tell  me,  tell  me!   speak  again, 
Thy  soft  response  renewing — 
What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast? 
What  is  the  ocean  doing?  ' 


410 


SECOND    VOICE. 

'  Still  as  a  slave  hefore  his  lord, 
The  Ocean  hath  no  blast; 
His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  Moon  is  cast — 

If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go; 
For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 
See,  brother,  see!  how  graciously 
She  looketh  down  on  him.' 


The  Mariner 
hath  been  cast 
into  a  trance ; 
for  the  angelic 
power  causeth 
the  vessel  to 
drive  north- 
ward faster 
than  human 
life  could 
endure. 


FIRST    VOICE. 


1  But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast, 
Without  or  wave  or  wind  ?  ' 


SECOND    VOICE. 


'  The  air  is  cut  away  before, 
And  closes  from  behind. 


76 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 


Fly,  brother,  fly!  more  high,  more  high! 
Or  we  shall  be  belated: 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go, 
When  the  Mariner's  trance  is  abated.' 


The  supernat- 
ural motion  is 
retarded ;  the 
Mariner 
awakes,  and 
his  penance 
begins  anew. 


The  curse  is 
finally  expi- 
ated. 


I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on  430 

As  in  a  gentle  weather: 
'Twas  night,  calm  night,  the  Moon  was  high; 
The  dead  men  stood  together. 

All  stood  together  on  the  deck, 
For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter: 
All  fixed  on  me  their  stony  eyes 
That  in  the  Moon  did  glitter. 

The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they  died, 
Had  never  passed  away: 

I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs,  440 

Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 

And  now  this  spell  was  snapt:  once  more 
I  viewed  the  ocean  green, 
And  looked  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 
Of  what  had  else  been  seen — 

Like  one  that  on  a  lonesome  road 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 

And  having  once  turned  round  walks  on, 

And  turns  no  more  his  head; 

Because  he  knows,  a  frightful  fiend  450 

Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

But  soon  tliere  breathed  a  wind  on  me, 
Nor  sound  nor  motion  made: 
Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 
In  ripple  or  in  shade. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 


77 


And  the  an- 
cient Mariner 
beholdeth  his 
native 
country. 


The  angelic 
spirits  leave 
the  dead 
bodies, 

And  appear 
in  their  own 
forme  of  light. 


It  raised  my  hair,  it  fanned  my  cheek 
Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring — 
It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship, 
Yet  she  sailed  softly  too: 
Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze — 
On  me  alone  it  blew. 

Oh!  dream  of  joy!  is  this  indeed 
The  light-house  top  I  see? 
Is  this  the  hill?  is  this  the  kirk? 
Is  this  mine  own  countree? 

We  drifted  o'er  the  harbour-bar, 
And  I  with  sobs  did  pray — 
0  let  me  be  awake,  my  God! 
Or  let  me  sleep  alway. 

The  harbour-bay  was  clear  as  glass, 
So  smoothly  it  was  strewn! 
And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay, 
And  the  shadow  of  the  Moon. 

The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less, 
That  stands  above  the  rock: 
The  moonlight  steeped  in  silentness 
The  steady  weathercock. 

And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light, 
Till  rising  from  the  same, 
Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 
In  crimson  colors  came. 

A  little  distance  from  the  prow 
Those  crimson  shadows  were: 


•ii-.ii 


4TO 


4SO 


78  SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 

I  turned  my  eyes  upon  the  deck — 
Oh,  Christ!  what  saw  I  there! 

Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat, 

And,  by  the  holy  rood! 

A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man  490 

On  every  corse  there  stood. 

This  seraph -band,  each  waved  his  hand: 
It  was  a  heavenly  sight! 
They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land, 
Each  one  a  lovely  light: 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand, 
No  voice  did  they  impart — 
No  voice;  but  oh!  the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 

But  soon  I  heard  the  dasli  of  oars,  soo 

I  heard  the  Pilot's  cheer; 

My  head  was  turned  perforce  away, 

And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 

The  Pilot,  and  the  Pilot's  boy, 
I  heard  them  coining  fast: 
Dear  Lord  in  ITcaven!  it  was  a  joy 
The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

I  saw  a  third — T  heard  his  voice: 

It  is  the  Hermit  good! 

ITc  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns  cio 

That  lie  makes  in  the  wood. 

TTe'll  shrieve  my  soul,  he'll  wash  away 

The  Albatross's  blood. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 


79 


The  Hermit  of 
the  wood, 


Approacheth 
the  ship  with 
wonder. 


PART  VII. 

This  Hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 
Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea. 
How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears! 
He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 
That  come  from  a  far  countree. 

He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon,  and  eve — 

He  hath  a  cushion  plump: 

It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 

The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 

The  skiff-boat  nearcd:  I  heard  them  talk, 
'  Why,  this  is  strange,  I  trow! 
Where  are  those  lights  so  many  and  fair, 
That  signal  made  but  now?' 

'  Strange,  by  my  faith! '  the  Hermit  said— 

'  And  they  answered  not  our  cheer! 

The  planks  look  warped!   and  see  those  sail 

How  thin  they  are  and  sere! 

I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them, 

Unless  perchance  it  were 

Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 

My  forest-brook  along: 

When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow. 

And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below. 

That  eats  the  she-wolf's  young.' 

'  Dear  Lord!   it  hath  a  fiendish  look — 
(The  Pilot  made  reply) 
I  am  a-f eared  ' — '  Push  on,  push  on! ' 
Said  the  Hermit  cheerilv. 


520 


80 


The  ship  sud- 
denly siuketh. 


The  ancient 
Mariner  is 
saved  in  the 
Pilot's  boat. 


SELECTIONS  FROM   COLERIDGE 

The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 
But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirred; 
The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship, 
And  straight  a  sound  was  heard. 

Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on, 
Still  louder  and  more  dread: 
It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay; 
The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

Stunned  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound,    sso 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote, 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  drowned 

My  body  lay  afloat; 

But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 

Within  the  Pilot's  boat, 

Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship, 
The  boat  spun  round  and  round: 
And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  tellinsr  of  the  sound. 


]  moved  my  lips — the  Pilot  shrieked 
And  fell  down  in  a  fit ; 
The  Holy  Hermit  raised  bis  eyes 
And  prayed  where  lie  did  sit. 

1  took  the  oars:   the  Pilot's  boy, 

Who  now  doth  crazy  <jo, 

Laugher]  loud  and  lonjr,  and  all  the  while 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 

Mia!  ha! 'quoth  he/ full  plain  T  see, 

The  Devil  knows  how  to  row.' 

And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree, 
I  stood  on  the  firm  laud! 


5CO 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 


81 


The  ancient 
Mariner 
earnestly  en- 
treat eth  the 
Hermit  to 
tihrieve  him  ; 
and  the  pen- 
ance of  life 
falls  on  him. 


The  Hermit  stepped  forth  from  the  boat, 
And  scarcely  lie  could  stand. 

'  0  shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  holy  man! ' 
The  Hermit  crossed  his  brow. 
'  Say  quick,'  quoth  he,  '  1  bid  thee  say — 
What  manner  of  man  art  thou?  ' 

Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrenched 
With  a  woi'ul  agony, 

Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale;  sso 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 


And  ever  and 
anon  through 
out  his  future 
life  an  agony 
oonstraineth 
him  to  travel 
from  land  to 
land, 


Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 
That  agony  returns; 
And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told, 
This  heart  within  me  burns. 

I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land; 
I  have  strange  power  of  speech; 
That  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 
I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me: 
To  him  my  talc  I  teach. 


590 


What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door! 
The  wedding-guests  are  there: 
But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 
And  bride-maids  singing  are: 
And  hark  the  little  vesper  bell, 
Which  biddetli  me  to  prayer! 

0  Wedding-Guest!  this  soul  hath  been 
Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea: 
So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 


600 


82 


And  to  teach, 
by  his  own 
example, 
love  and 
reverence  to 
all  thinps  that 
(iod  made  and 
loveth. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 

0  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 
"Pis  sweeter  far  to  me, 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 
With  a  goodly  company! — 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray, 

While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends, 

Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends, 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay! 

Farewell,  farewell!  but  this  I  tell 
To  thee,  thou  Wedding-Guest! 
He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all. 

The  Mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 
Is  gone:  and  now  the  Wedding-Guest 
Turned  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunned, 
And  is  of  sense  forlorn: 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man, 
He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 


610 


C20 


1797—1798] 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLEIUDUK  83 


KUBLA  KHAN.1 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Klian 

A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree: 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round: 
And  here  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills, 
Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing  tree; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills,  10 

Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But,  oh  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 

Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover! 

A  savage  place!  as  holy  and  enchanted 

As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover! 

And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething, 

As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 

A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced: 

Amid  whose  swift,  half-intermitted  burst  20 

Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail. 


1  In  1798,  not  the  summer  of  1797  ("  Letters  of  S.  T.  Colcridw,"  ed'ted  by  E.  II. 
Coleridge,  p.  245),  Coleridge,  having  quarrelled  with  his  friend  Lloyd  who  1'vcd  with 
him,  and  feeling  otherwise  depressed,  retired  to  a  lonely  farm-house  where  ho  first 
resorted  to  the  use  of  opium.  He  had  boon  reading,  according  to  his  account  in 
I'tirchas's  ••  Pilgrimage,"  the  sentence,  "  Here  the  Khan  Knhla  commanded  a  pa1  ace 
to  be  built,  and  a  stately  garden  thereunto.  And  thus  ten  miles  of  fertile  ground  were 
inclosed  with  a  wall,"  when  he  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed,  as  he  says,  from  two  to  three 
hundred  lines  of  poetry.  On  waking  he  wrote  down  what  we  have  of  "  Kubla  Khan  " ; 
but  being  called  away  on  business  and  returninsr  an  hour  later,  he  found  that  all  the 
rest,  except  a  few  confused  images,  had  faded  from  his  mind  In  later  years  he 
talked  of  completing  it,  but  it  remains  to  us  only  as  a  bit  of  the  most  sumptuous  mu- 
sic in  our  poetry,  expressive  of  "  heaven  and  elysian  bowers." 


84  SELECTIONS  FROM   COLERIDGE 

Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail: 
And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 
It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 
Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 
Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran, 
Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 
And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean: 
And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 
Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war!  so 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice! 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw: 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid. 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played,  « 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song. 

To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  me, 
That  with  music  loud  and  long, 
1  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 
That  sunny  dome!   those  caves  of  ice! 
And  all  who  heard  should  sec  them  there, 
And  all  should  cry.  I'ewarc!    Heware! 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair!  w 

Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice. 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  lie  on  honey-dew  hath  fed. 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 


85 


CEKISTABEL.1 


PART   I. 

"Pis  the  middle  of  night  by  the  castle  clock, 
And  the  owls  have  awakened  the  crowing  cock; 
Tu  —  whit !  -    -  Tu  —  whoo ! 
And  hark,  again!  the  crowing  cock, 
How  drowsily  it  crew. 


Sir  Leoline,  the  Baron  rich, 

Hath  a  toothless  mastiff,  which 

From  her  kennel  beneath  the  rock 

Maketh  answer  to  the  clock, 

Four  for  the  quarters,  and  twelve  for  the  hour; 

Ever  and  aye,  by  shine  and  shower, 

Sixteen  short  howls,  not  over  loud ; 

Some  say,  she  sees  my  lady's  shroud. 


10 


1  Coleridge  was  preparing  "  Christabel"  for  the  second  volume  of  "Lyrical  Bal- 
lads," but  during  the  printing  other  poems  were  inserted.  Part  I.  was  written  in  1 798, 
Part  II.,  in  Keswick,  in  1800,  when  Coleridge  was  already  beginning  to  feel  the  de- 
pression which  ultimately  overmastered  him.  Though  he  often  talked  of  finishing 
it  and  dec'ared  that  he  had  the  whole  story  planned,  it  is  certain  that  he  never  could 
have  curr'ed  it  on  in  the  spirit  with  which  it  was  begun. 

It  is  written,  as  Coleridge  says,  upon  a  new  principle  (borrowed  from  Chatterton) : 
that  of  counting  in  each  line  the  accents  not  the  syllables— always  four  accents, 
thoutrh  the  number  of  syllables  is  irregular.  Pauses,  even  including  an  accent,  are 
sometimes  introduced  in  a  manner  quite  new  in  literary  poetry,  though  familiar  to 
any  child  who  knows  Mother  Goose,  cf . : 


Is 


John  Smith   with 


Ay,    that    he 


r   - 


Borrowed  from  Lanier's  "  Science  of  English  Verse,"  p.  188. 


86  SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 

Is  the  night  chilly  and  dark? 

The  night  is  chilly,  but  not  dark. 

The  thin  grey  cloud  is  spread  on  high, 

It  covers  but  not  hides  the  sky. 

The  moon  is  behind,  and  at  the  full ; 

And  yet  she  looks  both  small  and  dull. 

The  night  is  chill,  the  cloud  is  grey:  20 

'Tis  a  month  before  the  month  of  May, 

And  the  Spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way. 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel, 

Whom  her  father  loves  so  well, 

What  makes  her  in  the  wood  so  late, 

A  furlong  from  the  castle  gate? 

She  had  dreams  all  yesternight 

Of  her  own  betrothed  knight; 

And  she  in  the  midnight  wood  will  pray 

For  the  weal  of  her  lover  that's  far  away.  su 

She  stole  along,  she  nothing  spoke, 
The  sighs  she  heaved  were  soft  and  low, 
And  nought  was  green  upon  the  oak 
But  moss  and  rarest  mistletoe: 
She  kneels  beneath  the  huge  oak-tree, 
And  in  silence  prayeth  she. 

The  lady  sprang  up'suddenly, 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel! 

It  moaned  as  near,  as  near  can  be, 

]>ut  what  it  is  she  cannot  tell. —  40 

On  the  other  side  it  seems  to  be, 

Of  the  huge,  broad-breasted,  old  oak-tree. 

The  night  is  chill;  the  forest  bare; 
Is  it  the  wind  that  moaneth  bleak? 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE  87 

There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air 

To  move  away  the  ringlet  curl 

From  the  lovely  lady's  cheek — 

There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 

The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan, 

That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can,  so 

Hanging  so  light,  and  hanging  so  high, 

On  the  topmost  twig  that  looks  up  at  the  sky. 

Hush,  beating  heart  of  Christabel! 
Jesiij  Maria,  shield  her  well! 
She  folded  her  arms  beneath  her  cloak, 
And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the  oak. 
What  sees  she  there? 

There  she  sees  a  damsel  bright, 

Drest  in  a  silken  robe  of  white, 

That  shadowy  in  the  moonlight  shone:  eo 

The  neck  that  made  that  white  robe  wan, 

Her  stately  neck,  and  arms  were  bare; 

Her  blue-veined  feet  unsandal'd  were, 

And  wildly  glittered  here  and  there 

The  gems  entangled  in  her  hair. 

I  guess,  'twas  frightful  there  to  see 

A  lady  so  richly  clad  as  she — 

Beautiful  exceedingly! 

Mary  mother,  save  me  now! 

(Said  Christabel,)  And  who  art  thou?  TO 

The  lady  strange  made  answer  meet, 
And  her  voice  was  faint  and  sweet: — 
Have  pity  on  my  sore  distress, 
I  scarce  can  speak  for  weariness: 
Stretch  forth  thy  hand,  and  have  no  fear! 
Said  Christabel,  How  earnest  thou  here? 


88  SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 

And  the  lady,  whose  voice  was  faint  and  sweet,, 
Did  thus  pursue  her  answer  meet: — 

My  sire  is  of  a  noble  line, 

And  my  name  is  Geraldine:  so 

Five  warriors  seized  me  yestermorn, 

Me,  even  me,  a  maid  forlorn: 

They  choked  my  cries  with  force  and  fright, 

And  tied  me  on  a  palfrey  white. 

The  palfrey  was  as  fleet  as  wind, 

And  they  rode  furiously  behind. 

They  spurred  amain,  their  steeds  were  white; 

And  once  we  crossed  the  shade  of  night. 

As  sure  as  Heaven  shall  rescue  me, 

I  have  no  thought  what  men  they  be;  »o 

Xor  do  I  know  how  long  it  is 

(For  I  have  lain  entranced  I  wis) 

Since  one,  the  tallest  of  the  five, 

Took  me  from  the  palfrey's  back, 

A  weary  woman,  scarce  alive. 

Some  muttered  words  his  comrades  spoke: 

Ife  placed  me  underneath  this  oak, 

lie  swore  they  would  return  with  haste; 

Whither  they  went  1  cannot  tell— 

1  thought  1  heard,  some  minutes  past,  100 

Sounds  as  of  a  castle  bell. 

Stretch  forth  thy  hand  (thus  ended  she), 

And  help  a  wretched  maid  to  flee. 

Then  Christabel  stretched  forth  her  hand 

And  comforted  fair  Geraldine: 

()  well,  bright  dame!   may  you  command 

The  service  of  Sir  Looline: 

And  gladly  our  stout  chivalry 

Will  he  send  forth  and  friends  withal 


SELECTIONS   FROM  COLERIDGE  89 

To  guide  and  guard  you  safe  and  free  no 

Home  to  your  noble  father's  hall. 

She  rose:  and  forth  with  steps  they  passed 

That  strove  to  be,  and  were  not,  fast. 

Her  gracious  stars  the  lady  blest, 

And  thus  spake  on  sweet  Christabel: 

All  our  household  are  at  rest, 

The  hall  as  silent  as  the  cell; 

Sir  Leoline  is  weak  in  health 

And  may  not  well  awakened  be, 

But  we  will  move  as  if  in  stealth,  120 

And  I  beseech  your  courtesy, 

This  night,  to  share  your  couch  with  me. 

They  crossed  the  moat,  and  Christabel 

Took  the  key  that  fitted  well: 

A  little  door  she  opened  straight, 

All  in  the  middle  of  the  gate: 

The  gate  that  was  ironed  within  and  without. 

Where  an  army  in  battle  array  had  marched  out. 

The  lady  sank,  belike  through  pain, 

And  Ohristabel  with  might  and  main  iso 

Lifted  her  up,  a  weary  weight, 

Over  the  threshold  of  the  gate: 

Then  the  lady  rose  again, 

And  moved,  as  she  were  not  in  pain. 

So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear, 

They  crossed  the  court:  right  glad  they  were. 

And  Christabel  devoutly  cried 

To  the  lady  by  her  side. 

Praise  we  the  Virgin  all  divine 

Who  hath  rescued  thee  from  thy  distress!  140 

Alas,  alas!  said  Geraldine, 

I  cannot  speak  for  weariness. 


90  SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 

So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear, 

They  crossed  the  court:  right  glad  they  were. 

Outside  her  kennel,  the  mastiff  old 

Lay  fast  asleep,  in  moonshine  cold. 

The  mastiff  old  did  not  awake, 

Yet  she  an  angry  moan  did  make! 

And  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch? 

Never  till  now  she  uttered  yell  iso 

Beneath  the  eye  of  Christabel. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  owlet's  scritch: 

For  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch? 

They  passed  the  hall,  that  echoes  still, 

Pass  as  lightly  as  you  will ! 

The  brands  were  flat,  the  brands  were  dying, 

Amid  their  own  white  ashes  lying; 

But  when  the  lady  passed,  there  came 

A  tongue  of  light,  a  fit  of  flame; 

And  Christabel  saw  the  lady's  eye,  ico 

And  nothing  else  saw  she  thereby, 

Save  the  boss  of  the  shield  of  Sir  Leoline  tall, 

Which  hung  in  a  murky  old  niche  in  the  wall. 

0  softly  tread,  said  Christabel, 

My  father  seldom  sleepeth  well. 

Sweet  Christabel  her  feet  doth  bare, 

And,  jealous  of  the  listening  air, 

They  steal  their  way  from  stair  to  stair, 

Now  in  glimmer,  and  now  in  gloom, 

And  now  they  pass  the  Baron's  room,  ITO 

As  still  as' death,  with  stifled  breath! 

And  now  have  reached  her  chamber  door; 

And  now  doth  CJeraldine  press  down 

The  rushes  of  the  chamber  floor. 


SELECTIONS  PROM  COLERIDGE  91 

The  moon  shines  dim  in  the  open  air, 

And  not  a  moonbeam  enters  here. 

But  they  without  its  light  can  see 

The  chamber  carved  so  curiously, 

Carved  with  figures  strange  and  sweet, 

All  made  out  of  the  carver's  brain,  iso 

For  a  lady's  chamber  meet: 

The  lamp  with  twofold  silver  chain 

Is  fastened  to  an  angel's  feet. 

The  silver  lamp  burns  dead  and  dim; 

But  Christabel  the  lamp  will  trim. 

She  trimmed  the  lamp,  and  made  it  bright, 

And  left  it  swinging  to  and  fro, 

While  Geraldine,  in  wretched  plight, 

Sank  down  upon  the  floor  below. 

0  weary  lady,  Geraldine,  190 

1  pray  you,  drink  this  cordial  wine! 
It  is  a  wine  of  virtuous  powers; 
My  mother  made  it  of  wild  flowers. 

And  will  your  mother  pity  me, 

Who  am  a  maiden  most  forlorn? 

Christabel  answered — Woe  is  me! 

She  died  the  hour  that  I  was  born. 

I  have  heard  the  grey-haired  friar  tell 

How  on  her  death-bed  she  did  say. 

That  she  should  hear  the  castle  bell  200 

Strike  twelve  upon  my  wedding-day. 

0  mother  dear!  that  thou  wert  here! 

1  would,  said  Geraldine,  she  were! 

But  soon  with  altered  voice,  said  she — 
'  Off,  wandering  mother!    Peak  and  pine! 
I  have  power  to  bid  thee  flee.' 


92  SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 

Alas!  what  ails  poor  Gcraldinc? 

Why  stares  she  with  unsettled  eye? 

Can  she  the  bodiless  dead  espy? 

And  why  with  hollow  voice  cries  she,  210 

'  Off,  woman,  off!  this  hour  is  mine — 

Though  thou  her  guardian  spirit  he, 

Off,  woman,  off!   'tis  given  to  me.' 

Then  Christahel  knelt  by  the  lady's  side, 
And  raised  to  heaven  her  eyes  so  blue — 
Alas!  said  she,  this  ghastly  ride — 
Dear  lady!  it  hath  wildered  you! 
The  lady  wiped  her  moist  cold  brow, 
And  faintly  said,  '  'Tis  over  now! ' 

Again  the  wild-flower  wine  she  drank:  220 

Her  fair  large  eyes  'gan  glitter  bright, 

And  from  the  floor  whereon  she  sank, 

The  lofty  lady  stood  upright: 

She  was  most  beautiful  to  see, 

Like  a  lady  of  a  far  countree. 

And  thus  the  lofty  lady  spake — 

'  All  they  who  live  in  the"  upper  sky, 

Do  love  you,  holy  Christabcl! 

And  you  love  them,  and  for  their  sake 

And  for  the  good  which  me  befcl,  230 

Even  1  in  my  degree  will  try, 

Fair  maiden,  to  requite  you  well. 

But  now  unrobe  yourself;  for  I 

Must  pray,  ere  yet  in  bed  I  lie.' 

Quoth  C'hristabel,  so  let  it  be! 
And  as  the  lady  bade,  did  she. 
Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress, 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE  93 

But  through  her  brain  of  weal  and  woe 

So  many  thoughts  moved  to  and  fro,  240 

That  vain  it  were  her  lids  to  close; 

So  half-way  from  the  bed  she  rose, 

And  on  her  elbow  did  recline 

To  look  at  the  lady  Geraldine. 

Beneath  the  lamp  the  lady  bowed, 

And  slowly  rolled  her  eyes  around; 

Then  drawing  in  her  breath  aloud, 

Like  one  that  shuddered,  she  unbound 

The  cincture  from  beneath  her  breast: 

Her  silken  robe,  and  inner  vest,  250 

Dropt  to  her  feet,  and  full  in  view, 

Behold!  her  bosom  and  half  her  side — 

A  sight  to  dream  of,  not  to  tell! 

0  shield  her!   shield  sweet  Christabel! 

Yet  Geraldine  nor  speaks  nor  stirs: 

Ah!  what  a  stricken  look  was  hers! 

Deep  from  within  she  seems  half-way 

To  lift  some  weight  with  sick  assay, 

And  eyes  the  maid  and  seeks  delay; 

Then  suddenly,  as  one  defied,  260 

Collects  herself  in  scorn  and  pride, 

And  lay  down  by  the  Maiden's  side! — 

And  in  her  arms  the  maid  she  took, 

Ah  well-a-day! 

And  with  low  voice  and  doleful  look 
These  words  did  say: 

'  In  the  touch  of  this  bosom  there  worketh  a  spell, 
Which  is  lord  of  thy  utterance.  Christabel! 
Thou  knowest  to-night,  and  wilt  know  to-morrow 
This  mark  of  my  shame,  this  seal  of  my  sorrow:     270 
But  vainly  thou  warrest, 

For  this  is  alone  in 


94  SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 

Thy  power  to  declare, 

That  in  the  dim  forest 
Thou  heard'st  a  low  moaning, 
And  found'st  a  bright  lady,  surpassingly  fair: 
And  didst  bring  her  home  with  thee  in  love 

and  in  charity, 
To  shield  her  and  shelter  her  from  the  damp  air.' 


THE   CONCLUSION   TO   PART  THE   FIRST. 

It  was  a  lovely  sight  to  see 

The  lady  Ohristabel,  when  she  sso 

Was  praying  at  the  old  oak-tree. 

Amid  the  jagged  shadows 

Of  mossy  leafless  boughs, 

Kneeling  in  the  moonlight, 

To  make  her  gentle  vows; 
Her  slender  palms  together  prcst, 
Heaving  sometimes  on  her  breast; 
Her  face  resigned  to  bliss  or  bale — 
Her  face,  oh  call  it  fair  not  pale. 
And  both  blue  eyes  more  bright  than  clear,  290 

Each  about  to  have  a  tear. 

With  open  eyes  (ah  woe  is  me!) 

Asleep,  and  dreaming  fearfully, 

Fearfully  dreaming,  yet,  I  wis, 

Dreaming  that  alone,  which  is — 

O  sorrow  and  shame!  Tan  this  be  she. 

The  lady,  who  knelt  at  the  old  oak-tree? 

And  lo!  the  worker  of  these  harms, 

That  holds  the  maiden  in  her  arms, 

Seems  to  slumber  still  and  mild,  soo 

As  a  mother  with  her  child. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE  95 

A  star  hath  set,  a  star  hath  risen, 

0  Geraldine!  since  arms  of  thine 

Have  been  the  lovely  lady's  prison. 

0  Geraldiue!  one  hour  was  thine — 

Thou'st  had  thy  will!    By  tairn  and  rill, 

The  night-birds  all  that  hour  were  still. 

But  now  they  are  jubilant  anew, 

From  cliff  and  tower,  tu  —  whoo!  tu  —  whoo! 

Tu — whoo!  tu — whoo!  from  wood  and  fell!  sio 

And  see!  the  lady  Christabel 
Gathers  herself  from  out  her  trance; 
Her  limbs  relax,  her  countenance 
Grows  sad  and  soft;  the  smooth  thin  lids 
Close  o'er  her  eyes;  and  tears  she  sheds — 
Large  tears  that  leave  the  lashes  bright!     • 
And  oft  the  while  she  seems  to  smile 
As  infants  at  a  sudden  light! 

Yea,  she  doth  smile,  and  she  doth  weep, 

Like  a  youthful  hermitess,  320 

Beauteous  in  a  wilderness, 

Who,  praying  always,  prays  in  sleep. 

And,  if  she  move  unquietly, 

Perchance,  'tis  but  the  blood  so  free, 

Comes  back  and  tingles  in  her  feet. 

No  doubt,  she  hath  a  vision  sweet. 

What  if  her  guardian  spirit  'twere, 

What  if  she  knew  her  mother  near? 

But  this  she  knows,  in  joys  and  woes, 

That  saints  will  aid  if  men  will  call:  sso 

For  the  blue  sky  bends  over  all! 


96  SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 


FRANCE:    AN  ODE. 

i. 

Ye  Clouds!  that  far  above  me  float  and  pause/ 

Whose  pathless  march  no  mortal  may  controul! 

Ye  Ocean- Waves!  that,  wheresoe'er  ye  roll, 
Yield  homage  only  to  eternal  laws! 
Ye  Woods!   that  listen  to  the  night-birds'  singing, 

Midway  the  smooth  and  perilous  slope  reclined, 
Save  when  your  own  imperious  branches  swinging, 

Have  made  a  solemn  music  of  the  wind ! 
Where,  liked  a  man  beloved  of  God, 
Through  glooms,  which  never  woodman  trod,  10 

How  oft,  pursuing  fancies  holy, 
My  moonlight  way  o'er  flowering  weeds  I  wound, 

Inspired,  beyond  the  guess  of  folly, 
]>y  each  rude  shape  and  wild  unconquerable  sound! 
0  ye  loud  Waves!  and  0  yc  Forests  high! 

And  0  ye  Clouds  that  far  above  me  soared! 
Thou  rising  Sun!  thou  blue  rejoicing  Sky! 

Yea,  every  thing  that  is  and  will  be  free! 

Bear  witness  for  me,  wheresoe'er  ye  be, 

With  what  deep  worship  I  have  still  adored  20 

The  spirit  of  divinest  Liberty. 

IT. 

When  France  in  wrath  her  giant-limbs  upreared. 
And  with  that  oath,  which  smote  air,  earth,  and  sea, 


1  The  more  billowv  the  metrical  waves  the  bettor  puitod  thovare  to  render  tho  emo- 


tion* expressed  t 
to  Franco."  and  <_ 
first  metrical  \vav 
airain  on  the  donl 
bouiidiiiL'  on.  hill 
podia  Hritunnica,"  Vol.  XIX.,  p.  272. 


v  (he  ode.  as  the  reader  will  see  by  referring  to  Coleridge's  "  Ode 
"vinir  special  attention  lo  the  first  stanza  to  the  way  in  which  tho 
,  after  it  had  gently  fallen  at  tho  end  of  the  first  (jiiafrain.  leaps  up 
le  rhvines  (which  are  expressly  introduced  for  this  effect  i  and  poos 
w  after  billow,  to  the  end  of  the  ntan/.a.  T.  WATTS,  "  Encyclo- 


SELECTIONS  FROM   COLERIDGE  97 

Stamped  her  strong  foot  and  said  she  would  be  free, 
Bear  witness  for  me,  how  I  hoped  and  feared! 
With  what  a  joy  my  lofty  gratulation 

Unawed  I  sang,  amid  a  slavish  band: 
And  when  to  whelm  the  disenchanted  nation, 

Like  fiends  embattled  by  a  wizard's  wand, 

The  Monarchs  marched  in  evil  day,.  30 

And  Britain  joined  the  dire  array; 

Though  dear  her  shores  and  circling  ocean, 
Though  many  friendships,  many  youthful  loves 

Had  swoln  the  patriot  emotion 
And  Hung  a  magic  light  o'er  all  her  hills  and  groves; 
Yet  still  my  voice,  unaltered,  sang  defeat 

To  all  that  braved  the  tyrant-quelling  lance, 
And  shame  too  long  delayed  and  vain  retreat! 
For  ne'er,  0  Liberty!  with  partial  aim 
I  dimmed  thy  light  or  damped  thy  holy  flame;  40 

But  blessed  the  pagans  of  delivered  France, 
And  hung  my  head  and  wept  at  Britain's  name.1 


in. 

'  And  what/  I  said, '  though  Blasphemy's  loud  scream 
With  that  sweet  music  of  deliverance  strove! 
Though  all  the  fierce  and  drunken  passions  wove 

A  dance  more  wild  than  e'er  was  maniac's  dream! 
Ye  storms,  that  round  the  dawning  east  assembled, 

The  Sun  was  rising,  though  ye  hid  his  light! ' 

And  when,  to  soothe  my  soul,  that  hoped  and  trembled, 

The  dissonance  ceased,  and  all  seemed  calm  and  bright; 
When  France  her  front  deep-scarred  and  gory 
Concealed  with  clustering  wreaths  of  glory; 
When,  insupportably  advancing. 


1  Cf.  "  Ode  on  the  Departing  Year,"  1T96. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 

Her  arm  made  mockery  of  the  warrior's  ramp; 
While  timid  looks  of  fury  glancing, 

Domestic  treason,  crushed  beneath  her  fatal  stamp, 
Writhed  like  a  wounded  dragon  in  his  gore; 

Then  I  reproached  my  fears  that  would  not  flee; 
'And  soon/  I  said, '  shall  Wisdom  teach  her  lore 
In  the  low  huts  of  them  that  toil  and  groan!  eo 

And,  conquering  by  her  happiness  alone, 

Shall  France  compel  the  nations  to  be  free, 
Till  Love  and  Joy  look  round,  and  call  the  Earth  their  own.' 

IV. 

Forgive  me,  Freedom!  0  forgive  those  dreams! 

I  hear  thy  voice,  I  hear  thy  loud  lament, 

From  bleak  Helvetia's  icy  caverns  sent — 1  , 
I  hear  thy  groans  upon  her  blood-stained  streams! 

Heroes,  that  for  your  peaceful  country  perished, 
And  ye  that,  fleeing,  spot  your  mountain-snows 

With  bleeding  wounds;  forgive  me,  that  I  cherished        fo 
One  thought  that  ever  blessed  your  cruel  foes! 

To  scatter  rage,  and  traitorous  guilt, 

Where  Peace  her  jealous  home  had  built; 

A  patriot-race  to  disinherit 
Of  all  that  made  their  stormy  wilds  so  dear; 

And  with  inexpiable  spirit 

To  taint  the  bloodless  freedom  of  the  mountaineer — 
()  France,  that  mockest  Heaven,  adulterous,  blind, 

And  patriot  only  in  pernicious  toils! 
Are  these  thy  boasts,  Champion  of  human  kind?  80 

To  mix  with  Kings  in  the  low  lust  of  sway, 
Yell  in  the  hunt,  and  share  the  murderous  prey; 
To  insult  the  shrine  of  Liberty  with  spoils 

From  freemen  torn;   to  tempt  and  to  betray? 


1  This  ode  was  inspired  by  the  French  invasion  of  Switzerland. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE  99 


V. 

The  Sensual  and  the  Dark  rebel  in  vain, 
Slaves  by  their  own  compulsion!  In  mad  game 
They  burst  their  manacles  and  wear  the  name 

Of  Freedom,,  graven  on  a  heavier  chain! 
0  Liberty!   with  profitless  endeavour 
Have  I  pursued  thee,  many  a  weary  hour;  so 

But  thou  nor  swell'st  the  victor's  strain,  nor  ever 
Didst  breathe  thy  soul  in  forms  of  human  power. 
Alike  from  all,  howe'er  they  praise  thee, 
(Xor  prayer  nor  boastful  name  delays  thee) 

Alike  from  Priestcraft's  harpy  minions, 
And  factious  Blasphemy's  obscener  slaves, 

Thou  speedest  on  thy  subtle  pinions, 
The  guide  of  homeless  winds,  and  playmate  of  the  waves! 
And  there  I  felt  thee! — on  that  sea-clilFs  verge, 

Whose  pines,  scarce  travelled  by  the  breeze  above,         100 
Had  made  one  murmur  with  the  distant  surge! 
Yes,  while  I  stood  and  gazed,  my  temples  bare, 
And  shot  my  being  through  earth,  sea,  and  air, 
Possessing  all  things  with  intensest  love, 
0  Liberty!  my  spirit  felt  thee  there. 

February,  1798.] 


FROST  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

The  Frost  performs  its  secret  ministry, 
Unhelped  by  any  wind.    The  owlet's  cry 
Came  loud — and  hark,  again!  loud  as  before. 
The  inmates  of  my  cottage,  all  at  rest, 
Have  left  me  to  that  solitude,  which  suits 
Abstruser  musings:  save  that  at  my  side 


100  SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 

My  cradled  infant  slumbers  peacefully. 

"Pis  calm  indeed!  so  calm,  that  it  disturbs 

And  vexes  meditation  with  its  strange 

And  extreme  silentness.    Sea,  hill,  and  wood,  10 

This  populous  village!    Sea,  and  hill,  and  wood, 

With  all  the  numberless  goings-on  of  life, 

Inaudible  as  dreams!   the  thin  blue  flame 

Lies  on  my  low  burnt  fire,  and  quivers  not; 

Only  that  film,  which  fluttered  on  the  grate, 

Still  flutters  there,  the  sole  unquiet  thing. 

Methinks,  its  motion  in  this  hush  of  nature 

Gives  it  dim  sympathies  with  me  who  live, 

Making  it  a  companionable  form, 

Whose  puny  flaps  and  freaks  the  idling  Spirit  20 

By  its  own  moods  interprets,  every  where 

Echo  or  mirror  seeking  of  itself 

And  makes  a  toy  of  Thought. 

But,  0!  how  oft, 

How  oft,  at  school,  with  most  believing  mind, 
Presageful,  have  I  gazed  upon  the  bars, 
To  watch  that  fluttering  stranger!  and  as  oft 
With  unclosed  lids,  already  had  I  dreamt 
Of  my  sweet  birth-place,  and  the  old  church-tower, 
Whose  bells,  the  poor  man's  only  music,  rang 
From  morn  to  evening,  all  the  hot  Fair-day,  so 

So  sweetly,  that  they  stirred  and  haunted  me 
Witli  a  wild  pleasure,  falling  on  mine  ear 
Most  like  articulate  sounds  of  things  to  come! 
So  gazed  1,  till  the  soothing  things,  I  dreamt, 
Lulled  me  to  sleep,  and  sleep  prolonged  my  dreams! 
And  so  I  brooded  all  the  following  morn. 
Awed  by  the  stern  preceptor's  face,  mine  eye 
Fixed  with  mock  study  on  my  swimming  book: 
Save  if  the  door  half  opened,  and  I  snatched 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE  101 

A  hasty  glance,  and  still  my  heart  leaped  up,  40 

For  still  I  hoped  to  see  the  stranger's  face, 
Townsman,  or  aunt,  or  sister  more  beloved, 
My  play-mate  when  we  both  were  clothed  alike! 


Dear  Babe,  that  sleepest  cradled  by  my  side, 
Whose  gentle  breathings,  heard  in  this  deep  calm, 
Fill  up  the  interspersed  vacancies 
And  momentary  pauses  of  the  thought! 
My  babe  so  beautiful!  it  thrills  my  heart 
With  tender  gladness,  thus  to  look  at  thee, 
And  think  that  thou  shalt  learn  far  other  lore,  so 

And  in  far  other  scenes!  For  I  was  reared 
In  the  great  city,  pent  'mid  cloisters  dim, 
And  saw  nought  lovely  but  the  sky  and  stars. 
But  thou,  my  babe!  shalt  wander  like  a  breeze 
By  lakes  and  sandy  shores,  beneath  the  crags 
Of  ancient  mountain,  and  beneath  the  clouds, 
Which  image  in  their  bulk  both  lakes  and  shores 
And  mountain  crags:  so  shalt  thou  see  and  hear 
The  lovely  shapes  and  sounds  intelligible 
Of  that  eternal  language,  which  thy  God  eo 

Utters,  who  from  eternity  doth  teach 
Himself  in  all,  and  all  things  in  himself. 
Great  universal  Teacher!  he  shall  mould 
Thy  spirit,  and  by  giving  make  it  ask. 

Therefore  all  seasons  shall  be  sweet  to  thee, 
Whether  the  summer  clothe  the  general  earth 
With  greenness,  or  the  redbreast  sit  and  sing 
Betwixt  the  tufts  of  snow  on  the  bare  branch 
Of  mossy  apple-tree,  while  the  nigh  thatch 
Smokes  in- the  sun-thaw;  whether  the  eave-drops  fall      "o 
Heard  only  in  the  trances  of  the  blast, 


102  SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 

Or  if  the  secret  ministry  of  frost 
Shall  hang  them  up  in  silent  icicles, 
Quietly  shining  in  the  quiet  Moon. 

February,  1798.] 

LOVE. 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  1  lay, 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  Moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene, 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve;  10 

And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve! 

She  leant  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight; 
She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope!  my  joy!  my  Genevieve! 
She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  T  sing 

The  songs  that  make  her  grieve.  20 

T  played  a.  soft  and  doleful  air. 
T  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  song.  Ilinl  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE  103 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace; 
For  well  she  knew  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand;  so 

And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined:  and,  ah! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace; 
And  she  forgave  me.  that  I  gazed 

Too  fondly  on  her  face!  *o 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  Knight, 
And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain-woods, 
Xor  rested  day  nor  night; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den. 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright:  so 

And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight! 

And  that  unknowing  what  lie  did, 
He  leaped  amid  a  murderous  band, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 

And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land! 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasped  his  knees; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain; —  eo 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave; 
And  how  his  madness  went  away, 
When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay. 

His  dying  words — But  when  I  reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve;  TO 

The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherished  long! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight. 

She  blushed  with  love,  and  virgin-shame; 

And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream. 

I  heard  her  breathe  my  name.  so 

Her  bosom  heaved — she  stepped  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stepped — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE  105 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms, 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace; 
And  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'Twos  partly  Love,  and  partly  Fear, 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art,  90 

That  I  might  rather  feel,  than  see, 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  Bride. 


1798-1799.] 


DEJECTION:  AX  ODE.1 

WRITTEN    APRIL   4,    1802. 

Late,  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new  Moon, 
With  the  old  Moon  in  her  arms ; 
And  I  fear,  I  fear,  my  Master  dear ! 
We  shall  have  a  deadly  storm. 

"  Ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spence. 

I. 

Well!    If  the  Bard  was  weather-wise,  who  made 
The  grand  old  ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 
This  night,  so  tranquil  now,  will  not  go  hence 

Unroused  by  winds,  that  ply  a  busier  trade 


1  Originally  dedicated  to  Wordsworth,  but  afterward  altered  to  efface  any  marks 
of  a  personal  character.  When  first  published  "William''  was  changed  to  "Ed- 
mund," and  before  1817.  when  it  was  printed  in  "  Sibylline  Leaves,''  an  estrangement 
between  the  two  friends  caused  still  further  changes,  besides  the  insertion  of  "  Lady  " 
in  place  of  "  Edmund." 


106  SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 

Than  those  which  mould  yon  cloud  in  lazy  flakes, 

Or  the  dull  sobbing  draft,  that  moans  and  rakes 
Upon  the  strings  of  this  yEolian  lute, 
Which  better  far  were  mute. 
For  lo!    the  New-moon  winter-bright! 
And  overspread  with  phantom  light,  10 

(With  swimming  phantom  light  o'erspread 
But  rimmed  and  circled  by  a  silver  thread) 

I  see  the  old  Moon  in  her  lap,  foretelling 
The  coming  on  of  rain  and  squally  blast. 

And  oh!  that  even  now  the  gust  were  swelling, 
And  the  slant  night-shower  driving  loud  and  fast! 

Those  sounds  which  oft  have  raised  me,  whilst  they  awed, 
And  sent  my  soul  abroad, 

Might  now  perhaps  their  wonted  impulse  give, 

Might  startle  this  dull  pain,  and  make  it  move  and  live!      20 


ii. 

A  grief  without  a  pang,  void,  dark,  and  drear, 

A  stifled,  drowsy,  unimpassioned  grief. 

Which  finds  no  natural  outlet,  no  relief, 

In  word,  or  sigh,  or  tear — 
0  Lady!  in  this  wan  and  heartless  mood, 
To  other  thoughts  by  yonder  throstle  \voo'd, 

All  this  long  eve,  so  balmy  and  serene, 
Have  T  been  ga/ing  on  the  western  sky, 

And  its  peculiar  tint  of  yellow  green: 

And  still  1  gaxe — and  with  how  blank  an  eye!  so 

And  those  thin  clouds  almve,  in  flakes  and  bars, 
That  giveaway  their  motion  to  the  stars: 
Those  stars,  that  glide  behind  them  or  between, 
Now  sparkling,  now  bedinuned.  but  always  seen: 
Yon  crescent  Moon,  as  fixed  as  if  it  grew 
In  its  own  cloudless,  starless  lake  of  blue; 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE  107 

I  see  them  all  so  excellently  fair, 

I  see,  not  feel  how  beautiful  they  are! 


III. 

My  genial  spirits  fail; 

And  what  can  these  avail  40 

To  lift  the  smothering  weight  from  off  my  breast? 

It  were  a  vain  endeavour, 

Though  I  should  gaze  for  ever 
On  that  green  light  that  lingers  in  the  west: 
I  may  not  hope  from  outward  forms  to  win 
The  passion  and  the  life,  whose  fountains  are  within. 


IV. 

0  Lady!  we  receive  but  what  we  give, 

And  in  our  life  alone  does  nature  live: 

Ours  is  her  wedding-garment,  ours  her  shroud! 

And  would  we  aught  behold,  of  higher  worth, 
Than  that  inanimate  cold  world  allowed 
To  the  poor  loveless  ever-anxious  crowd, 

Ah!  from  the  soul  itself  must  issue  forth, 
A  light,  a  glory,  a  fair  luminous  cloud 

Enveloping  the  Earth — 
And  from  the  soul  itself  must  there  be  sent 

A  sweet  and  potent  voice,  of  its  own  birth, 
Of  all  sweet  sounds  the  life  and  element! 


v. 

0  pure  of  heart!  thou  need'st  not  ask  of  me 
What  this  strong  music  in  the  soul  may  be! 
What,  and  wherein  it  doth  exist, 
This  light,  this  glory,  this  fair  luminous  mist, 


108  SELECTION*  FROM  COLERIDGE 

This  beautiful  aud  beauty-making  power. 

Joy.  virtuous  Lady!  J<»y  that  ne'er  was  given. 
Save  to  the  pure,  and  in  their  pure?:  h.nir. 
Life,  and  Life's  effluence,  cloud  at  once  and  shower, 
•Joy.  Lady!   is  the  spirit  and  the  power. 
Which  wedding  Nature  to  us  gives  in  dower. 

A  new  Earth  and  new  Heaven. 
Undreamt  of  by  the  sensual  and  the  proud — 
Joy  is  the  sweet  voice.  Joy  the  luminous  cloud — 

We  in  ourselves  rejoice! 
And  thence  flows  all  that  charms  or  ear  or  sight. 

All  melodies  the  echoes  of  that  voice. 
All  colours  a  suffusion  from  that  lidit. 


VI. 

There  was  a  time  when,  though  my  path  was  rough, 

This  joy  within  me  dallied  with  distress. 
And  all  misfortunes  were  but  as  the  stuff 

Whence  Fancy  made  me  dreams  of  happiness: 
For  hope  grew  round  me.  like  the  twining  vine.  so 

And  fruits,  and  foliage,  not  mv  own.  seemed  mine. 
But  now  afflictions  bow  me  down  to  earth: 
Xor  care  I  that  they  rob  me  of  my  mirth: 

But  oh!  each  visitation 
Suspend?  what  nature  gave  me  at  my  birth. 

My  shaping  spirit  of  Imagination. 
F'.r  not  to  think  of  what  I  need-  must  feel. 

But  to  be  still  and  patient,  all  I  can: 
And  haply  by  abstruse  research  to  steal 

From  my  own  nature  all  the  natural  man —  *> 

This  was  my  sole  resource,  my  nnly  plan: 
Till  that  which  suits  a  part  infect-  the  whole. 
And  now  is  almost  jrrown  the  habit  of  mv  soul. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE  109 


Hence,  viper  thoughts,  that  coil  around  my  mind, 

Reality's  dark  dream! 
I  turn  from  you,  and  listen  to  the  wind, 
Which  long  has  raved  unnoticed.    What  a  scream 
Of  agony  by  torture  lengthened  out 
That  lute  sent  forth!    Thou  Wind,  that  rav'st  without, 

Bare  crag,  or  mountain-tairn,  or  blasted  tree,  100 

Or  pine-grove  whither  woodman  never  clomb, 
Or  lonely  house,  long  held  the  witches'  home, 

Methinks  were  fitter  instruments  for  thee, 
Mad  Lutanist!  who  in  this  month  of  showers, 
Of  dark  brown  gardens,  and  of  peeping  flowers, 
Mak'st  Devils'  yule,  with  worse  than  wintry  song, 
The  blossoms,  buds,  and  timorous  leaves  among. 

Thou  Actor,  perfect  in  all  tragic  sounds! 
Thou  mighty  Poet,  e'en  to  frenzy  bold! 

What  tell'st  thou  now  about  ?  no 

'Tis  of  the  rushing  of  a  host  in  rout. 
With  groans  of  trampled  men,  with  smarting  wounds — 
At  once  they  groan  with  pain,  and  shudder  with  the  cold! 
But,  hush!  there  is  a  pause  of  deepest  silence! 

And  all  that  noise,  as  of  a  rushing  crowd. 
With  groans,  and  tremulous  shudderings — all  is  over — 
It  tells  another  tale,  with  sounds  less  deep  and  loud! 
A  tale  of  less  affright. 
And  tempered  with  delight, 

As  Otway's  self  had  framed  the  tender  lay,  120 

'Tis  of  a  little  child 
TTpon  a  lonesome  wild,1 


1  Otway,  of  course,  is  only  a  change  from  Wordsworth.  "Lucy  Gray"  had  just 
been  printed  when  Coleridge  wrote  almost  these  same  words  in  a  letter  to  Poole 
See  Campbell's  edition  of  Coleridge,  p.  628. 


110  SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE 

Xot  far  from  home,  but  she  hath  lost  her  way: 

And  now  moans  low  in  bitter  grief  and  fear, 

And  now  screams  loud,  and  hopes  to  make  her  mother  hear. 

t  vin. 

'Tis  midnight,  but  small  thoughts  have  I  of  sleep: 
Full  seldom  may  my  friend  such  vigils  keep! 
Visit  her,  gentle  Sleep!  with  wings  of  healing, 

And  may  this  storm  be  but  a  mountain-birth, 
May  all  the  stars  hang  bright  above  her  dwelling,  iso 

Silent  as  though  they  watched  the  sleeping  Earth! 
With  light  heart  may  she  rise, 
Gay  fancy,  cheerful  eyes, 

Joy  lift  her  spirit,  joy  attune  her  voice; 
To  her  may  all  things  live,  from  pole  to  pole, 
Their  life  the  eddying  of  her  living  soul! 

0  simple  spirit,  guided  from  above, 
Dear  Lady!  friend  devoutest  of  my  choice, 
Thus  mayest  thou  ever,  evermore  rejoice! 


SHELLEY   AS  A  CHILD. 


V 


\l    I 

1  1 


SELECTIONS   FROM  SHELLEY 


HYMN  TO  INTELLECTUAL  BEAUTY. 


The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  Power 
Floats  tho'  unseen  among  us, — visiting 
This  various  world  with  as  inconstant  wing 
As  summer  winds  that  creep  from  flower  to  flower, — 
Like  moonbeams  that  behind  some  piny  mountain  shower, 

It  visits  with  inconstant  glance 

Each  human  heart  and  countenance; 
Like  hues  and  harmonies  of  evening, — 

Like  clouds  in  starlight  widely  spread, — 

Like  memory  of  music  fled, — 

Like  aught  that  for  its  grace  may  be 
Dear,  and  yet  dearer  for  its  mystery. 

II. 

Spirit  of  Beauty,  that  dost  consecrate 

With  thine  own  hues  all  thou  dost  shine  upon 
Of  human  thought  or  form, — where  art  thou  gone? 
Why  dost  thou  pass  away,  and  leave  our  state. 
This  dim  vast  vale  of  tears,  vacant  and  desolate? 
Ask  why  the  sunlight  not  for  ever 
Weaves  rainbows  o'er  yon  mountain  river. 
Why  aught  should  fail  and  fade  that  once  is  shown, 

111 


112  SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY 

Why  fear  and  dream  and  death  and  hirth 
Cast  on  the  daylight  of  this  earth 
Such  gloom, — why  man  has  such  a  scope 
For  love  and  hate,  despondency  and  hopejr 

in. 

Xo  voice  from  some  suhlimer  world  hath  ever 
To  sage  or  poet  these  responses  given— 
Therefore  the  names  of  Demon,  (Jhost,  and  Heaven, 
Kemain  the  records  of  their  vain  endeavour, 
Frail  spells — whose  uttered  charm  might  not  avail  to  sever, 

From  all  we  hear  and  all  we  see, 

Doubt,  chance  and  mutability. 
Thy  light  alone — like  mist  o'er  mountains  driven, 

Or  music  by  the  night  wind  sent, 

Thro'  strings  of  some  still  instrument, 

Or  moonlight  on  a  midnight  stream, 
Gives  grace  and  truth  to  life's  unquiet  dream. 

IV. 

Love,  Hope,  and  Self-esteem,  like  clouds  depart 
And  come,  for  some  uncertain  moments  lent. 
Man  were  immortal,  and  omnipotent. 
Didst  thou,  unknown  and  awful  as  thou  art, 
Keep  with  thy  glorious  train  firm  state  within  his  heart. 

Thou  messenger  of  sympathies, 

That  wax  and  wane  in  lovers'  eyes — 
Thou — that  to  human  thought  art  nourishment, 

Like  darkness  to  a  dying  flame! 

Depart  not  as  thy  shadow  came. 

Depart  not — lest  the  grave  should  be, 
Like  life  and  fear,  a  dark  reality. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY  113 

V. 

While  yet  a  boy  I  sought  for  ghosts,  and  sped 
Thro'  many  a  listening  chamber,  cave  and  ruin, 
And  starlight  wood,  with  fearful  steps  pursuing 
Hopes  of  high  talk  with  the  departed  dead. 
I  called  on  poisonous  names  with  which  our  youth  is  fed, 

I  was  not  heard — I  saw  them  not — 

When  musing  deeply  on  the  lot 
Of  life,  at  that  sweet  time  when  winds  are  wooing 

All  vital  things  that  wake  to  bring 

Xews  of  birds  and  blossoming, — 

Sudden,  thy  shadow  fell  on  me; 
I  shrieked,  and  clasped  my  hands  in  ecstasy! 

VI. 

I  vowed  that  I  would  dedicate  my  powers 
To  thee  and  thine — have  I  not  kept  the  vow? 
With  beating  heart  and  streaming  eyes,  even  now 
I  call  the  phantoms  of  a  thousand  hours 
Each  from  his  voiceless  grave:  they  have  in  visioned  bowers 

Of  studious  zeal  or  love's  delight 

Outwatched  with  me  the  envious  night — 
They  know  that  never  joy  illumed  my  brow 

Unlinked  with  hope  that  thou  wouldst  free 

This  world  from  its  dark  slavery, 

That  thou — 0  awful  LOVELINESS, 
Wouldst  give  whate'er  these  words  cannot  express. 

VII. 

The  day  becomes  more  solemn  and  serene 

When  noon  is  past— there  is  a  harmony 

In  autumn,  and  a  lustre  in  its  sky, 
Which  thro'  the  summer  is  not  heard  or  seen, 
8 


114  SELECTIONS  FROM   SHELLEY 

As  if  it  could  not  be,  as  if  it  had  not  been! 

Thus  let  thy  power,  which  like  the  truth 

Of  nature  on  my  passive  youth 
Descended,  to  my  onward  life  supply 

Its  calm — to  one  who  worships  thee, 

And  every  form  containing  thee, 

Whom,  SPIRIT  fair,  thy  spells  did  bind 
To  fear  himself,  and  love  all  human  kind. 

1816.] 

STANZAS. 

WRITTEN   IN    DEJECTION,    NEAR  NAPLES. 
I. 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 

The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright, 

Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
The  purple  moon's  transparent  might, 
The  breath  of  the  moist  earth  is  light, 

Around  its  uncxpanded  buds; 
Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight, 

The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean  floods, 
The  City's  voice  itself  is  soft  like  Solitude's. 

IT. 

I  see  the  Deep's  untramplcd  floor 

"With  green  and  purple  seaweeds  strown; 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 

Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers,  thrown: 

I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone. 
The  lightning  of  the  noon-tide  ocean 

Ts  (lashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  motion, 
How  sweet!  did  any  heart  now  share  in  my  emotion. 


SELECTIONS  FHOM  SHELLEY  115 


III. 

Alas!  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 
Xor  peace  within  nor  calm  around, 

Nor  that  content  surpassing  wealth 
The  sage  in  meditation  found, 
And  walked  with  inward  glory  crowned — 

Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure. 
Others  I  see  whom  these  surround — 

Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure; — 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 

IV. 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild, 
Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are; 

I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 
And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne  and  yet  must  bear, 

Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me, 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 

My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

v. 

Some  might  lament  that  I  were  cold, 

As  I,  when  this  sweet  day  is  gone, 
Which  my  lost  heart,  too  soon  grown  old, 

Insults  with  this  untimely  moan; 

They  might  lament — for  I  am  one 
Whom  men  love  not, — and  yet  regret, 

T'nlike  this  day,  which,  when  the  sun 
Shall  on  its  stainless  glory  set, 

Will  linger,  though  enjoyed,  like  joy  in  memory  yet. 
1818.] 


116  SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY 


ENGLAND    IN    1819. 

An  old,  mad,  blind,  despised,  and  dying  king, — 
Princes,  the  dregs  of  their  dull  race,  who  flow 
Through  public  scorn, — mud  from  a  muddy  spring,- 
l\ulers  who  neither  see,  nor  feel,  nor  know, 
But  leech-like  to  their  fainting  country  cling, 
Till  they  drop,  blind  in  blood,  without  a  blow, — 
A  people  starved  and  slabbed  in  the  untilled  field, — 
An  army,  which  liberticide  and  prey 
Makes  as  a  two-edged  sword  to  all  who  wield 
Golden  and  sanguine  laws  which  tempt  and  slay; 
Religion  Christlcss,  Godless — a  book  sealed; 
A  Senate, — Time's  worst  statute  unrepealed, — 
Arc  graves,  from  which  a  glorious  Phantom  may 
Burst,  to  illumine  our  tempestuous  day.1 


ODE   TO   THE  WEST   WIND.2 


0,  wild  West  Wind,  fhou  breath  of  Autumn's  being, 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 
IVstilence-st  ricken  multitudes:    (),  thou, 
Who  chariotrst  to  their  dark  wintrv  bed 


1  That  thi«  fierce  scouriritiL'  dues  not  represent  a  passing  mood  or  merely  personal 
f(!t:lin}r,  is  evidenced  by  such  poems  as  "  The  Mask  of  Anarchy,"  "  Swellfoot  the 
Tyrant,"  Hyron's  "Irish  Avatar,''  and  many  passaircs  in  Hymn's  lonper  poems. 

"  Composed  in  the  wood  near  Florence,  utter  u  tempestuous  day  iu  the  autumn. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY  117 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low, 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  a/ure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odours  plain,  and  hill: 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  every  where; 
Destroyer  and  preserver;  hear,  0,  hear! 

IT. 

Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's  commotion, 
Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed, 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven  and  Ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning:  there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Maniad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height, 

The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.    Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapours,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 

Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst:  0,  hear! 

in. 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay, 
Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 


118  SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Bail's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them!    Thou 

For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  grey  with  fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves:  0,  hear! 


IV. 


If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear; 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee; 

A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  0,  uncontrollable!     If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 

As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed 

Scarce  seemed  a  vision;  I  would  ne'er  have  striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh!  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life!    I  bleed! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and  bowed 
One  too  like  thee:  tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY  119 


V. 

Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is: 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  hoth  a  deep,  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.    .Be  thou,  spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit!  Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth! 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy!   0,  wind, 

If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind? 

1819.] 


LYRICS  FROM  PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 

SONG   OF   SPIRITS. 

To  the  deep,  to  the  deep, 

Down,  down! 

Through  the  shade  of  sleep, 
Through  the  cloudy  strife 
Of  Death  and  of  Life; 
Through  the  veil  and  the  bar 
Of  things  which  seem  and  are, 
Even  to  the  steps  of  the  remotest  throne, 

Down,  down! 


120  SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY 

While  the  sound  whirls  around,  10 

Down,  down! 

As  the  fawn  draws  the  hound, 
As  the  lightning  the  vapour, 
As  a  weak  moth  the  taper; 
Death,  despair;  love,  sorrow; 
Time,  both;  to-day,  to-morrow; 
As  steel  obeys  the  spirit  of  the  stone, 

Down,  down! 

Through  the  grey,  void  abysm, 

Down,  down!  20 

Where  the  air  is  no  prism, 
And  the  moon  and  stars  are  not, 
And  the  cavern-crags  wear  not 
The  radiance  of  Heaven, 
Nor  the  gloom  to  Earth  given, 
Where  there  is  one  pervading,  one  alone, 

Down,  down! 

In  the  depth  of  the  deep 

Down,  down! 

Like  veiled  lightning  asleep.  so 

Like  the  spark  nursed  in  embers, 
The  last  look  Love  remembers. 
Like  a  diamond,  which  shines 
On  the  dark  wealth  of  mines. 
A  spell  is  treasured  but  for  thce  alone, 

Down. down! 

We  have  bound  thee.  we  guide  thce; 

Down,  down! 

Will)  the  bright  form  beside  thee; 

T?esist  not  the  weakness.  40 

Such  strength  is  in  meekness 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY  121 

That  the  Eternal,  the  Immortal., 

Must  unloose  through  life's  portal 

The  snake-like  Doom  coiled  underneath  his  throne 

By  that  alone. 
II   iii.  54—98. 

SPIRIT. 

My  coursers  are  fed  with  the  lightning, 
They  drink  of  the  whirlwind's  stream, 

And  when  the  red  morning  is  bright'ning 
They  bathe  in  the  fresh  sunbeam; 
They  have  strength  for  their  swiftness  I  deem, 

Then  ascend  with  me,  daughter  of  Ocean. 

I  desire:    and  their  speed  makes  night  kindle; 
I  fear:    they  outstrip  the  Typhoon; 

Ere  the  cloud  piled  on  Atlas  can  dwindle 

We  encircle  the  earth  and  the  moon:  10 

We  shall  rest  from  long  labours  at  noon: 

Then  ascend  with  me,  daughter  of  Ocean. 

On  the  brink  of  the  night  and  the  morning 
My  coursers  arc  wont  to  respire; 

But  the  Karth  has  just  whispered  a  warning 
That  their  iliglit  must  be  swifter  than  fire: 
They  shall  drink  the  hot  speed  of  desire! 

II.  iv.  1G3— 179. 

IIYMST   TO    ASIA. 

Life  of  Life!   thy  lips  enkindle 

With  their  love  the  breath  between  them; 

And  thy  smiles  before  they  dwindle 
Make  the  cold  air  fire:  then  screen  them 

In  those  looks,  where  whoso  gazes 

Faints,  entangled  in  their  mazes. 


122  SELECTIONS  PROM  SHELLEY 

Child  of  Light!    thy  limbs  are  burning 
Thro'  the  vest  which  seems  to  hide  them; 

As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 

Thro'  the  clouds  ere  they  divide  them;  10 

And  this  atmosphere  divinest 

Shrouds  thee  wheresoe'er  thou  shinest. 

Fair  are  others;  none  beholds  thee, 
But  thy  voice  sounds  low  and  tender 

Like  the  fairest,  for  it  folds  thee 

From  the  sight,  that  liquid  splendour, 

And  all  feel,  yet  see  thee  never, 

As  I  feel  now,  lost  for  ever! 

Lamp  of  Earth!  where'er  thou  movest 

Its  dim  shapes  are  clad  with  brightness,  20 

And  the  souls  of  whom  thou  lovest 

Walk  upon  the  winds  with  lightness, 
Till  they  fail,  as  I  am  failing, 
Dizzy,  lost,  yet  unbewailing! 

II.  v.  50—73. 
1819.] 


THE  CLOUD. 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noon-day  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY  123 

I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under,  10 

And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white, 

While  1  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skiey  bowers, 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits, 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits;  20 

Over  earth  and  ocean  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains. 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains.  so 


The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  its  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack. 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead, 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag. 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea  beneath . 

Its  ardours  of  rest  and  of  love, 


124  SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY 

And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 
From  the  depth  of  heaven  above, 

With  wings  folded  1  rest,  on  mine  airy  nest, 
As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 


That  orbed  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor, 

]>y  the  midnight  breezes  strewn; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear,  so 

May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent, 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  tliese. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  /one. 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl;  GO 

The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape. 

Over  a  torrent  sea, 
Sunbeam-proof,  T  hang  like  a  roof. 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  T  march 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow. 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair, 

Is  the  million-coloured  hmv;  70 

The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colours  wove. 

While  the  moist  earth  was  lauirhinir  below. 


SELECTIONS   FROM  SHELLEY  125 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores; 

I  change,  but  1  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when  with  never  a  stain, 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  convex  gleams, 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air,  so 

I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the  tomb, 

1  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 

1820.] 


TO  A  SKYLARK. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 

Like  a  cloud  of  fire; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest. 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun. 
O'er  which  clouds  are  bright'ning, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run: 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 


126  SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 

In  the  broad  day-light 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight,  w 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  \ve  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed,  so 

What  thou  art  we  know  not; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden. 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not:  *° 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower. 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower: 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY  127 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  imbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue  [so 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass, which  screen  it  from  the  view: 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 

Makes   faint   with   too   much   sweet    those    heavy-winged 
thieves: 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Eain-awakened  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass.        eo 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  arc  thine: 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  Hymameal, 

Or  triumphal  chaimt, 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt, 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want.  TO 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind?  what  ignorance  of  pain? 


128  SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee: 
Thou  lovest;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety.  so 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  How  in  such  a  crystal  stream? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not: 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought,    so 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Hotter  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
.Hotter  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  arc  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  wore,  thou  scornor  of  the  ground!  100 

Teach  mo  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know. 
Such  harmonious  madness 

I'Yom  niv  lips  would  (low. 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 

Leghorn,  1H20.] 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY  129 


ODE   TO  LIBERTY. 

Yet,  Freedom,  yet  thy  banner  torn  but  flying, 
Streams  like  a  thunder- storm  against  the  wind. 

BYRON. 

I. 

A  glorious  people  vibrated  again 

The  lightning  of  the  nations:   Liberty 
From  heart  to  heart,  from  tower  to  tower,  o'er  Spain, 

Scattering  contagious  fire  into  the  sky, 
Gleamed.    My  soul  spurned  the  chains  of  its  dismay, 
And,  in  the  rapid  plumes  of  song, 
Clothed  itself,  sublime  and  strong; 
As  a  young  eagle  soars  the  morning  clouds  among, 
Hovering  in  verse  o'er  its  accustomed  prey; 

Till  from  its  station  in  the  heaven  of  fame 
The  Spirit's  whirlwind  rapt  it,  and  the  ray 

Of  the  remotest  sphere  of  living  flame 
Which  paves  the  void  was  from  behind  it  flung, 
As  foam  from  a  ship's  swiftness,  when  there  came 
A  voice  out  of  the  deep:  I  will  record  the  same. 

II. 

The  Sun  and  the  serenest  Moon  sprang  forth: 
The  burning  stars  of  the  abyss  were  hurled 

Into  the  depths  of  heaven.    The  daedal  earth, 
That  island  in  the  ocean  of  the  world. 

Hung  in  its  cloud  of  all-sustaining  air: 

O 

But  this  divinest  universe 
Was  yet  a  chaos  and  a  curse. 

For  thou  wert  not:  but  power  from  worst  producing  worse, 
The  spirit  of  the  beasts  was  kindled  there, 
9 


130  SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY 

And  of  the  birds,  and  of  the  watery  forms, 
And  there  was  war  among  them,  and  despair 

Within  them,  raging  without  truce  or  terms: 
The  bosom  of  their  violated  nurse 

Groaned,  for  beasts  warred  on  beasts,  and  worms  on 

worms, 
And  men  on  men;  each  heart  was  as  a  hell  of  storms. 

in. 

Man,  the  imperial  shape,  then  multiplied 

His  generations  under  the  pavilion 
Of  the  Sun's  throne:  palace  and  pyramid, 

Temple  and  prison,  to  many  a  swarming  million, 
Were,  as  to  mountain  wolves  their  ragged  caves. 
This  human  living  multitude 
Was  savage,  cunning,  blind,  and  rude, 
For  thou  wert  not;  but  o'er  the  populous  solitude, 
Like  one  fierce  cloud  over  a  waste  of  waves 

Hung  Tyranny;  beneath,  sate  deified 
The  sister-pest,  congregator  of  slaves; 
Into  the  shadow  of  her  pinions  wide 
Anarchs  and  priests  who  feed  on  gold  and  blood, 
Till  with  the  stain  their  inmost  souls  are  dyed, 
Drove  the  astonished  herds  of  men  from  every  side. 

IV. 

The  nodding  promontories,  and  blue  isles. 

And  cloud-like  mountains,  and  dividuous  waves 
Of  Greece,  basked  glorious  in  the  open  smiles 

Of  favouring  heaven:    from  their  enchanted  caves 
Prophetic  echoes  flung  dim  melody. 
On  the  unapprehensive  wild 
The  vine,  the  corn,  the  olive  mild, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY  131 

Crow  savage  yet,  to  human  use  unreconciled; 
And,  like  the  unfolded  flowers  beneath  the  sea, 

Like  the  man's  thought  dark  in  the  infant's  brain, 
Like  aught  that  is  which  wraps  what  is  to  be, 

Art's  deathless  dreams  lay  veiled  by  many  a  vein 
Of  Parian  stone;  and  yet  a  speechless  child, 
Verse  murmured,  and  Philosophy  did  strain 
Her  lidless  eyes  for  thee;  when  o'er  the  ^Egean  main 

v. 

Athens  arose:  a  city  such  as  vision 

Builds  from  the  purple  crags  and  silver  towers 
Of  battlemented  cloud,  as  in  derision 

Of  kingliest  masonry:  the  ocean  floors 
Pave  it;  the  evening  sky  pavilions  it; 
Its  portals  are  inhabited 
By  thunder-zoned  winds,  each  head 
Within  its  cloudy  wings  with  sun  fire  garlanded, 
A  divine  work!   Athens  diviner  yet  * 

Gleamed  with  its  crest  of  columns,  on  the  will 
Of  man,  as  on  a  mount  of  diamond,  set; 

For  thou  wort,  and  thine  all-creative  skill 
Peopled  with  forms  that  mock  the  eternal  dead 
In  marble  immortality,  that  hill 
Which  was  thine  earliest  throne  and  latest  oracle. 

VI. 

Within  the  surface  of  Time's  fleeting  river 

Its  wrinkled  image  lies,  as  then  it  lay 
Immovably  unquiet,  and  for  ever 

It  trembles,  but  it  cannot  pass  away! 
The  voices  of  thy  bards  and  sagos  thunder 
With  an  earth-awakening  blast 
Through  the  caverns  of  the  past; 


132  SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY 

Religion  veils  her  eyes;   Oppression  shrinks  aghast: 
A  winged  sound  of  joy,  and  love,  and  wonder, 
Which  soars  where  Expectation  never  flew, 
Rending  the  veil  of  space  and  time  asunder! 

One  ocean  feeds  the  clouds,  and  streams,  and  dew; 
One  sun  illumines  heaven;  one  spirit  vast 
With  life  and  love  makes  chaos  ever  new, 
As  Athens  doth  the  world  with  thy  delight  renew. 

VII. 

Then  Rome  was,  and  from  thy  deep  bosom  fairest, 

Like  a  wolf-cub  from  a  Cadm;van  Mivnad,1 
She  drew  the  milk  of  greatness,  though  thy  dearest 

From  that  Elysian  food  was  yet  unweaned; 
And  many  a  deed  of  terrible  uprightness 
By  thy  sweet  love  was  sanctified; 
And  in  thy  smile,  and  by  thy  side, 
Saintly  Camillus  lived,  and  firm  Atilius  died. 
But  when  tears  stained  thy  robe  of  vestal  whiteness, 

And  gold  profaned  thy  capitolian  throne, 
Thou  didst  desert,  with  spirit-winged  lightness, 

The  senate  of  the  tyrants:  they  sunk  prone 
Slaves  of  one  tyrant:  Falatinus  sighed 
Faint  echoes  of  Ionian  song;  that  tone 
Thou  didst  delay  to  hear,  lamenting  to  disown. 

VIII. 

From  what  TTyrcanian  glen  or  frozen  hill, 

Or  piny  promontory  of  the  Arctic  main, 
Or  utmost  islet  inaccessible, 

Didst  thou  lament  the  ruin  of  thy  reign, 


1  Unless  one  is  familiar  with  classical  mythology  and  history,  one  should  road 
Shelley  with  u  classical  dictionary  at  his  elbow. 


SELECTIONS   FROM   SHELLEY 

Teaching  the  woods  and  waves,  and  desert  rocks, 
And  every  Naiad's  ice-cold  urn, 
To  talk  in  echoes  sad  and  stern, 

Of  that  sublimcst  lore  which  man  had  dared  unlearn? 
For  neither  didst  thou  watch  the  wizard  ilocks 

Of  the  Scald's  dreams,  nor  haunt  the  Druid's  sleep. 
What  if  the  tears  rained  through  thy  shattered  locks 

Were  quickly  dried?  for  thou  didst  groan,  not  weep, 
When  from  its  sea  of  death  to  kill  and  burn, 
The  Galilean  serpent  forth  did  creep, 
And  made  thy  world  an  imdistinguishable  heap. 

IX. 

A  thousand  years  the  Earth  cried,  Where  art  thou? 

And  then  the  shadow  of  thy  coming  fell 
On  Saxon  Alfred's  olive-cinctured  brow: 

And  many  a  warrior-peopled  citadel, 
Like  rocks  which  fire  lifts  out  of  the  flat  deep, 
Arose  in  sacred  Italy, 
Frowning  o'er  the  tempestuous  sea 

Of  kings,  and  priests,  and  slaves,  in  tower-crowned  majesty 
That  multitudinous  anarchy  did  sweep. 

And  burst  around  their  walls,  like  idle  foam, 
Whilst  from  the  human  spirit's  deepest  dee]) 

Strange  melody  with  love  and  awe  struck  dumb 
Dissonant  arms;  and  Art,  which  cannot  die. 
With  divine  wand  traced  on  our  earthly  home 
Fit  imagery  to  pave  heaven's  everlasting  dome. 

x. 

Thou  huntress  swifter  than  the  Moon!  thou  terror 
Of  the  world's  wolves!  thou  hearer  of  the  quiver, 

Whose  sun-like  shafts  pierce  tempest -winged  Error, 
As  light  may  pierce  the  clouds  when  they  dissever 


134  SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY 

In  the  calm  regions  of  the  orient  day! 

Luther  caught  thy  wakening  glance, 
Like  lightning,  from  his  leaden  lance 
Reflected,  it  dissolved  the  visions  of  the  trance 
In  which,  as  in  a  tomb,  the  nations  lay; 

And  England's  prophets  hailed  thce  as  their  queen, 
In  songs  whose  music  cannot  pass  away, 

Though  it  must  flow  for  ever;  not  unseen 
Before  the  spirit-sighted  countenance 

Of  Milton  didst  thou  pass,  from  the  sad  scene 
Beyond  whose  night  he  saw,  with  a  dejected  mien. 

XI. 

The  eager  hours  and  unreluctant  years 

As  on  a  dawn-illumined  mountain  stood, 
Trampling  to  silence  their  loud  hopes  and  fears, 

Darkening  each  other  with  their  multitude, 
And  cried  aloud,  Liberty!  Indignation 
Answered  Pity  from  her  cave; 
Death  grew  pale  within  the  grave, 
And  Desolation  howled  to  the  destroyer,  Save! 
When,  like  heaven's  sun  girt  by  the  exhalation 

Of  its  own  glorious  light,  thou  didst  arise, 
Chasing  thy  foes  from  nation  unto  nation 

Like  shadows:  as  if  day  had  cloven  the  skies 
At  dreaming  midnight  o'er  the  western  wave. 
Men  started,  staggering  with  a  glad  surprise, 
Under  the  lightnings  of  thine  unfamiliar  eyes. 

XII. 

Thou  heaven  of  earth!  what  spells  could  pall  thce  then, 

In  ominous  eclipse?  a  thousand  years 
P. red  from  the  slime  of  deep  oppression's  den, 

Dyed  all  thy  liquid  light  with  blood  and  tears, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY  135 

Till  thy  sweet  stars  could  weep  the  stain  away; 
How  like  Bacchanals  of  blood 
Kound  France,  the  ghastly  vintage,  stood 
Destruction's  sceptred  slaves,  and  Folly's  mitred  brood! 
When  one,  like  them,  but  mightier  far  than  they. 

The  Anarch  of  thine  own  bewildered  powers 
Eose:  armies  mingled  in  obscure  array, 

Like  clouds  with  clouds,  darkening  the  sacred  bowers 
Of  serene  heaven.    He,  by  the  past  pursued, 

Kests  with  those  dead,  but  unforgotten  hours, 
Whose  ghosts  scare  victor  kings  in  their  ancestral  towers. 

XIII. 

England  yet  sleeps:  was  she  not  called  of  old? 

Spain  calls  her  now,  as  with  its  thrilling  thunder 
Vesuvius  wakens  ^Etna,  and  the  cold 

Snow-crags  by  its  reply  are  cloven  in  sunder: 
O'er  the  lit  waves  every  yEolian  isle 
From  Pithecusa  to  Pelorus 
Howls,  and  leaps,  and  glares  in  chorus: 
They  cry,  Be  dim;  ye  lamps  of  heaven  suspended  o'er  us. 
Her  chains  are  threads  of  gold,  she  need  hut  smile 

And  they  dissolve;  but  Spain's  were  links  of  steel, 
Till  bit  to  dust  by  virtue's  keenest  file. 

Twins  of  a  single  destiny!  appeal 
To  the  eternal  years  enthroned  before  us, 
In  the  dim  West:  impress  us  from  a  seal. 
All  ye  have  thought  and  done!    Time  cannot  dare  conceal. 

XIV. 

Tomb  of  Arminius!  render  up  thy  dead 

Till,  like  a  standard  from  a  watch-tower's  staff. 

His  soul  may  stream  over  the  tyrant's  head; 
Thy  victory  shall  be  his  epitaph. 


136  SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY 

Wild  Bacchanal  of  truth's  mysterious  wine, 
King-deluded  Germany, 
His  dead  spirit  lives  in  thee. 
Why  do  we  fear  or  hope?  thou  art  already  free! 
And  thou,  lost  Paradise  of  this  divine 

And  glorious  world!  thou  flowery  wilderness! 
Thou  island  of  eternity!  thou  shrine 

Where  desolation  clothed  with  loveliness, 
Worships  the  thing  thou  wert!   0  Italy, 
Gather  thy  blood  into  thy  heart;  repress 
The  beasts  who  make  their  dens  thy  sacred  palaces. 

xv. 

0,  that  the  free  would  stamp  the  impious  name 

Of  Kixo  *  into  the  dust!  or  write  it  there, 
So  that  this  blot  upon  the  page  of  fame 

Were  as  a  serpent's  path,  which  the  light  air 
Erases,  and  the  flat  sands  close  behind! 
Ye  the  oracle  have  heard: 
Lift  the  victory-flashing  sword, 
And  cut  the  snaky  knots  of  this  foul  gordian  word, 
Which  weak  itself  as  stubble,  yet  can  bind 

Into  a  mass,  irrefragably  firm, 
The  axes  and  the  rods  which  awe  mankind; 
The  sound  has  poison  in  it,  'tis  the  sperm 
Of  what  makes  life  foul,  cankerous,  and  abhorred; 
Disdain  not  thou,  at  thine  appointed  term, 
To  set  thine  armed  heel  on  this  reluctant  worm. 

XVI. 

0,  that  the  wise  from  their  bright  minds  would  kindle 
Such  lamps  within  the  dome  of  this  dim  world, 

1  In  Shelley'?  and  Mr*.  Shelley'*  edition*  this  word  Jo  omitted,  and  in  iff  place  are 
four  afteriRkc,  which  have  given  Hue  to  much  diHCURKion.  King  in  the  word  in  the 
extant  fragment  of  the  rotif,'h  draft.— II.  B.  FOHMAN. 


SELECTIONS   FROM   SHELLEY  137 

That  the  pale  name  of  I'RIKST  might  shrink  and  dwindle1 

Into  the  hell  from  which  it  first  was  hurled, 
A  scoff  of  impious  pride  from  fiends  impure, 

Till  human  thoughts  might  kneel  alone, 
Each  before  the  judgment-throne 
Of  its  own  aweless  soul,  or  of  the  power  unknown! 
0,  that  the  words  which  make  the  thoughts  obscure 

From  which  they  spring,  as  clouds  of  glimmering  dew 
From  a  white  lake  blot  heaven's  blue  portraiture, 

Were  stript  of  their  thin  masks  and  various  hue 
And  frowns  and  smiles  and  splendours  not  their  own, 
Till  in  the  nakedness  of  false  and  true 
They  stand  before  their  Lord,  each  to  receive  its  due. 


XVII. 

lie  who  taught  man  to  vanquish  whatsoever 

Can  be  between  the  cradle  and  the  grave 
Crowned  him  the  King  of  Life.    0  vain  endeavour! 

If  on  his  own  high  will  a  willing  slave, 
He  has  enthroned  the  oppression  and  the  oppressor. 
What  if  earth  can  clothe  and  feed 
Amplest  millions  at  their  need, 

And  power  in  thought  be  as  the  tree  within  the  seed? 
0,  what  if  Art,  an  ardent  intercessor, 

Driving  on  fiery  \vings  to  Nature's  throne, 
Checks  the  great  mother  stooping  to  caress  her, 

And  cries:   Give  me,  thy  child,  dominion 
Over  all  height  and  depth?  if  Life  can  breed 

New  wants,  and  wealth  from  those  who  toil  and  groan 
Rend  of  thy  gifts  and  hers  a  thousandfold  for  one. 


1  That  he  did  to  the  last  regard  it  [the  Christian  religion]  as  by  all  historical  evi- 
dence the  invariable  accomplice  of  tyranny— as  at  once  the  constant  slreld  and  ready 
spear  of  force  and  frand — his  latest  letters  show  as  clearly  as  that  he  did  no  injustice 
to  "  the  sublime  human  character'1  of  its  founder.— SWINBURNE. 


138  SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY 


XVIII. 

Come  Thou,  but  load  out  of  the  inmost  cave 
Of  man's  deep  spirit,  as  the  morning-star 
Beckons  the  Sun  from  the  Loan  wave, 

Wisdom.    I  hear  the  pennons  of  her  car 
Self-moving,  like  cloud  charioted  by  flame; 
Comes  she  not,  and  come  ye  not, 
Eulers  of  eternal  thought, 

To  judge,  with  solemn  truth,  life's  ill-apportioned  lot? 
Blind  Love,  and  equal  Justice,  and  the  Fame 

Of  what  has  been,  the  Hope  of  what  will  be? 
0,  Liberty!  if  such  could  be  thy  name 

Wert  thou  disjoined  from  these,  or  they  from  thee: 
If  thine  or  theirs  were  treasures  to  be  bought 
By  blood  or  tears,  have  not  the  wise  and  free 
Wept  tears,  and  blood  like  tears?    The  solemn  harmony 

XIX. 

Paused,  and  the  spirit  of  that  mighty  singing 

To  its  abyss  was  suddenly  withdrawn; 
Then,  as  a  wild  swan,  when  sublimely  winging 

Its  path  athwart  the  thunder-smoke  of  dawn, 
Sinks  headlong  through  the  aerial  golden  light 
On  the  heavy  sounding  plain, 
When  the  boll  has  pierced  its  brain; 
As  summer  clouds  dissolve,  imhurlhcned  of  their  rain; 
As  a  far  taper  fades  witli  fading  night, 

As  a  brief  insect  dies  with  dying  day. 
My  song,  its  pinions  disarrayed  of  might. 

Drooped;   o'er  it  closed  the  echoes  far  away 
Of  the  great  voice  which  did  its  flight  sustain, 
As  waves  which  latelv  paved  his  watery  way 
Hiss  round  a  drowner's  head  in  their  tempestuous  play. 
1820.J 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY  139 


ARETHUSA. 

I. 

Arethusa  arose 

From  her  couch  of  snows 

In  the  Aeroceraunian  mountains, — 
From  cloud  and  from  crag, 
With  many  a  jag, 

Shepherding  her  hright  fountains. 
She  leapt  down  the  rocks, 
With  her  rainbow  locks 

Streaming  among  the  streams; — 
Her  steps  paved  with  green 
The  downward  ravine 

Which  slopes  to  the  western  gleams: 
And  gliding  and  springing 
She  went,  ever  singing, 

In  murmurs  as  soft  as  sleep; 

The  Earth  seemed  to  love  her, 
And  Heaven  smiled  above  her, 

As  she  lingered  towards  the  deep. 

ii. 

Then  Alpheus  bold, 

On  his  glacier  cold, 
With  his  trident  the  mountains  strook 

And  opened  a  chasm 

In  the  rocks; — with  the  spasm 
All  Erymanthus  shook. 

And  the  black  south  wind 

It  concealed  behind 
The  urns  of  the  silent  snow, 


140  SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY 

And  earthquake  and  thunder 
Did  rend  in  sunder 

The  bars  of  the  springs  below: 
The  beard  and  the  hair 
Of  the  River-god  were 

Seen  through  the  torrent's  sweep, 
As  lie  followed  the  light 
Of  the  fleet  nymph's  flight 

To  the  brink  of  the  Dorian  deep. 

in. 

"  Oh,  save  me!  Oh,  guide  me! 
And  bid  the  deep  hide  me, 

For  he  grasps  me  now  by  the  hair!  " 
The  loud  Ocean  heard, 
To  its  blue  depth  stirred, 

And  divided  at  her  prayer; 
And  under  the  water 
The  Earth's  white  daughter 

Fled  like  a  sunny  beam; 

Behind  her  descended 
Her  billows,  unblended 

With  the  brackish  Dorian  stream: — 
Like  a  gloomy  stain 
On  the  emerald  main 

Alpheus  rushed  behind, — 

As  an  eagle  pursuing 
A  dove  to  its  ruin 

Down  the  streams  of  the  cloudy  wind. 

TV. 

Under  the  bowers 
Where  the  Ocean  Towers 
Sit  on  their  pearled  thrones, 

Through  the  coral  woods 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY 

Of  the  weltering  floods, 

Over  heaps  of  unvalued  stones; 
Through  the  dim  beams 
Which  amid  the  streams 

Weave  a  net-work  of  coloured  light; 
And  under  the  caves, 
Where  the  shadowy  waves 

Are  as  green  as  the  forest's  night: — 
Outspeeding  the  shark, 
And  the  swoid-Jish  dark, 

Under  the  ocean  foam, 

And  up  through  the  rifts 
Of  the  mountain  clii'ts 

They  past  to  their  Dorian  home. 

v. 

And  now  from  their  fountains 
In  Enna's  mountains, 

Down  one  vale  where  the  morning  basks, 
Like  friends  once  parted 
Grown  single-hearted, 

They  ply  their  watery  tasks. 
At  sunrise  they  leap 
From  their  cradles  steep 

In  the  cave  of  the  shelving  hill; 
At  noon-tide  they  flow 
Through  the  woods  below 

And  the  meadows  of  Asphodel; 
And  at  night  they  sleep 
In  the  rocking  deep 

Beneath  the  Ortygian  shore; — 
Like  spirits  that  lie 
In  the  azure  sky 

When  they  love  but  live  no  more. 
1820.] 


U2  SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY 


HYMN   OF   APOLLO. 


The  sleepless  Hours  who  watch  me  as  I  lie, 
Curtained  with  star-inwoven  tapestries, 

From  the  broad  moonlight  of  the  sky, 

Fanning  the  busy  dreams  from  my  dim  eyes, — 

Waken  me  when  their  Mother,  the  grey  Dawn, 

Tells  them  that  dreams  and  that  the  moon  is  gone. 

ii. 

Then  I  arise,  and  climbing  Heaven's  blue  dome, 
I  walk  over  the  mountains  and  the  waves, 

Leaving  my  robe  upon  the  ocean  foam; 

My  footsteps  pave  the  clouds  with  fire;  the  caves 

Are  filled  with  my  bright  presence,  and  the  air 

Leaves  the  green  earth  to  my  embraces  bare. 

in. 

The  sunbeams  are  my  shafts,  with  which  I  kill 
Deceit,  that  loves  the  night  and  fears  the  day; 

All  men  who  do  or  even  imagine  ill 
Fly  me.  and  from  the  glory  of  my  ray 

f!ood  minds  and  open  actions  take  new  might, 

Until  diminished  by  the  reign  of  night. 

IV. 

I  feed  the  clouds,  the  rainbows  and  the  flowers 
With  their  a-thereal  colours:    the  Moon's  globe 

And  the  pure  stars  in  their  eternal  bowers 
Arc  cinctured  with  my  power  as  with  a  robe; 

Whatever  lamps  on  Karth  or  Heaven  may  shine, 

Are  portions  of  one  power,  which  is  mine. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY 
V. 

I  stand  at  noon  upon  the  peak  of  Heaven, 
Then  with  unwilling  steps  I  wander  down 

Into  the  clouds  of  the  Atlantic  even; 

For  grief  that  I  depart  they  weep  and  frown: 

What  look  is  more  delightful  than  the  smile 

With  which  I  soothe  them  from  the  western  isle? 

VI. 

I  am  the  eye  writh  which  the  Universe 
Beholds  itself  and  knows  itself  divine; 

All  harmony  of  instrument  or  verse, 
All  prophecy,  all  medicine  are  mine, 

All  light  of  art  or  nature; — to  my  song, 

Victory  and  praise  in  their  own  right  belong. 

1820.] 

HYMN  OF  PAN.1 


From  the  forests  and  highlands 

We  come,  we  come: 
From  the  river-girt  islands, 

Where  loud  waves  are  dumb 

Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. 
The  wind  in  the  reeds  and  the  rushes, 

The  bees  on  the  bells  of  thyme, 
The  birds  on  the  myrtle  bushes, 
The  cicale  above  in  the  lime, 


1  This  and  the  former  poem  were  written  at  the  request  of  a  friend,  to  he  inserted 
in  a  drama  on  the  subject  of  Midas.  Apollo  and  Pan  contended  before  Tuiolus  for 
the  prize  in  music.— MBS.  SHELLEY. 


144  SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY 

And  the  lizards  below  in  the  grass, 
Were  as  silent  as  ever  old  Tmolus  was 
Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. 


ii. 

Liquid  Peneus  was  flowing, 

And  all  dark  Tempo  lay 
In  Pelion's  shadow,  outgrowing 
The  light  of  the  dying  day, 

Speeded  by  my  sweet  pipings. 
The  Sileni,  and  Sylvans,  and  Fauns, 

And  the  Xymplis  of  the  woods  and  waves. 
To  the  edge  of  the  moist  river-lawns, 

And  the  brink  of  the  dewy  caves, 
And  all  that  did  then  attend  and  follow, 
Were  silent  with  love,  as  you  now,  Apollo, 
With  envy  of  my  sweet  pipings. 

III. 

I  sang  of  the  dancing  stars, 

I  sang  of  the  daxlal  Earth, 
And  of  Heaven — and  the  giant  wars, 
And  Love,  and  Death,  and  Birth, — 

And  then  T  changed  my  pipings, — 
Singing  how  down  the  vale  of  Menahis 

1  pursued  a  maiden  and  clasped  a  reed: 
Gods  and  men,  we  are  all  deluded  thus! 

li  breaks  in  our  bosom  and  (hen  we  bleed; 
All  wept,  as  T  think  both  ye  now  would, 
If  envy  or  age  had  not  frozen  your  blood. 
At  the  sorrow  of  my  sweet  pipings. 

1820.] 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY  U5 


AUTUMN: 

A    DIRGE. 

The  warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  wind  is  wailing, 
The  bare  boughs  arc  sighing,  the  pale  flowers  are  dying, 

And  the  year 

On  the  earth  her  death-bed,  in  a  shroud  of  leaves  dead, 
Is  lying. 

Come,  months,  come  away, 

From  November  to  May, 

In  your  saddest  array; 

Follow  the  bier 

Of  the  dead  cold  year.  10 

And  like  dim  shadows  watch  by  her  sepulchre. 

The  chill  rain  is  falling,  the  nipped  worm  is  crawling, 
The  rivers  are  swelling,  the  thunder  is  knelling 

For  the  year; 

The  blithe  swallows  are  flown,  and  the  lizards  each  gone 
To  his  dwelling; 

Come,  months,  come  away; 

Put  on  white,  black,  and  grey; 

Let  your  light  sisters  play — 

Ye,  follow  the  bier  20 

Of  the  dead  cold  year. 
And  make  her  grave  green  with  tear  on  tear. 

1820.] 


10 


U6  SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY 


DIRGE  FOR  THE  YEAR. 

i. 

Orphan  hours,  the  year  is  dead, 
Come  and  sigh,  come  and  weep! 

Merry  hours,  smile  instead, 
For  the  year  is  but  asleep. 

See,  it  smiles  as  it  is  sleeping, 

Mocking  your  untimely  weeping. 

ii. 
As  an  earthquake  rocks  a  corse 

In  its  coffin  in  the  clay, 
So  White  Winter,  that  rough  nurse, 

Rocks  the  death-cold  year  to-day; 
Solemn  hours!  wail  aloud 
For  your  mother  in  her  shroud. 

in. 
As  the  wild  air  stirs  and  sways 

The  tree-swung  cradle  of  a  child, 
So  the  breath  of  these  rude  days 

Rocks  the  year: — be  calm  and  mild, 
Trembling  hours,  she  will  arise 
With  new  love  within  her  eyes. 

IV. 

January  grey  is  here, 

Like  a  sexton  by  her  grave; 

February  boars  the  bier, 

March  with  grief  doth  howl  and  rave, 

And  April  weeps — but,  (),  ye  hours, 

Follow  with  May's  fairest  flowers. 
1821.] 


SELECTIONS  FROM   SHELLEY 


SONG. 


Rarely,  rarely,  comest  them, 

Spirit  of  Delight! 
Wherefore  hast  thou  left  me  now 

Many  a  day  and  night? 
Many  a  weary  night  and  day 
'Tis  since  thou  art  fled  away. 

ii. 

How  shall  ever  one  like  me 

Win  thee  back  again? 
With  the  joyous  and  the  free 

Thou  wilt  scoff  at  pain. 
Spirit  false!  thou  hast  forgot 
All  but  those  who  need  thee  not. 

in. 

As  a  lizard  with  the  shade 

Of  a  trembling  leaf. 
Thou  with  sorrow  art  dismayed; 

Even  the  sighs  of  grief 
Reproach  thee.  that  thou  art  not  near, 
And  reproach  thou  wilt  not  hear. 

IV. 

Let  me  set  my  mournful  ditty 

To  a  merry  measure. 
Thou  wilt  never  come  for  pity. 

Thou  wilt  come  for  pleasure. 
Pity  then  will  cut  away 
Those  cruel  wings,  and  thou  wilt  stav. 


U8  SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY 


V. 

I  love  all  that  thou  lovest, 

Spirit  of  Delight! 
The  fresh  Earth  in  new  leaves  drest 

And  the  starry  night; 
Autumn  evening,  and  the  morn 
When  the  golden  mists  are  born. 


I  love  snow,  and  all  the  forms 

Of  the  radiant  frost; 
I  love  waves,  and  winds,  and  storms, 

Everything  almost 
Which  is  Xature's,  and  may  be 
Untainted  by  man's  misery. 

VII. 

I  love  tranquil  solitude, 

And  such  society 
As  is  quiet,  wise,  and  good; 

Between  thee  and  me 
What  difference?   but  thou  dost  possess 
The  things  I  seek,  not  love  them  less. 

VIII. 

I  love  Love— though  he  has  wings, 

And  like  light  can  flee, 
But  above  all  other  things, 

Spirit,  T  love  thee — 
Thou  art  love  and  life!    0  come, 
Make  once  more  my  heart  thy  home. 
1821.] 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY 


TO  NIGHT. 


Swiftly  walk  o'er  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Xight! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave, 
Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear, 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, — 

Swift  be  thy  flight! 

II. 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  grey, 

Star-inwrought! 

Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day, 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out, 
Then  wander  o'er  city,  and  sea,  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand — 

Come,  long-sought! 

in. 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sighed  for  thee; 

When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  his  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sighed  for  thee. 

IV. 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

Wouldst  thou  me? 
Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 


150  SELECTIONS  FROM  SHEL'LEY 

Murmured  like  a  noon-tide  bee, 
Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side? 
Wouldst  thou  me? — and  I  replied, 
No,  not  thee! 

v. 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon;   too  soon — 

Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  night, — 
Swift  be  thy  approaching  flight, 
Come  soon,  soon! 


1821.] 


TO-MORROW. 


Where  art  thou,  beloved  To-morrow? 

When  young  and  old  and  strong  and  weak, 
Rich  and  poor,  through  joy  and  sorrow, 

Thy  sweet  smiles  we  ever  seek, — 
In  thy  place — ah!  well-a-day! 
We  find  the  thing  we  fled — To-day. 

1821.] 

WITH  A   fJUITAR:  TO  JANE. 

Ariel  to  Miranda. — Take 

This  slave  of  Music,  for  the  sake 

Of  liirn  who  is  the  slave  of  thee, 

And  teach  it  all  the  harmony 

In  which  thou  canst,  and  only  thou, 

Make  the  delighted  spirit  glow, 

Till  joy  denies  itself  again, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY  151 

And,  too  intense,  is  turned  to  pain; 

For  by  permission  and  command 

Of  thine  own  Prince  Ferdinand,  10 

Poor  Ariel  sends  this  silent  token 

Of  more  than  ever  can  he  spoken; 

Your  guardian  spirit,  Ariel,  who, 

From  life  to  life,  must  still  pursue 

Your  happiness; — for  thus  alone 

Can  Ariel  ever  find  his  own. 

From  Prospero's  enchanted  cell,         • 

As  the  mighty  verses  tell, 

To  the  throne  of  Naples,  he 

Lit  you  o'er  the  trackless  sea,  20 

Flitting  on,  your  prow  before. 

Like  a  living  meteor. 

When  you  die,  the  silent  Moon, 

In  her  interlunar  swoon, 

Is  not  sadder  in  her  cell 

Than  deserted  Ariel. 

When  you  live  again  on  earth, 

Like  an  unseen  star  of  birth, 

Ariel  guides  you  o'er  the  sea 

Of  life  from  your  nativity.  so 

Many  changes  have  been  run, 

Since  Ferdinand  and  you  begun 

Your  course  of  love,  and  Ariel  still 

Has  tracked  your  steps,  and  served  your  will; 

Now,  in  humbler,  happier  lot, 

This  is  all  remembered  not; 

And  now,  alas!  the  poor  sprite  is 

Imprisoned,  for  some  fault  of  his. 

In  a  body  like  a  grave; — 

From  you  he  only  dares  to  crave,  *> 

For  his  service  and  his  sorrow, 

A  smile  to-day,  a  song  to-morrow. 


152  SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY 

The  artist  who  this  idol  wrought, 

To  echo  all  harmonious  thought, 

Felled  a  tree,  while  on  the  steep 

The  woods  were  in  their  winter  sleep, 

Rocked  in  that  repose  divine 

On  the  wind-swept  Apennine; 

And  dreaming,  some  of  Autumn  past, 

And  some  of  Spring  approaching  fast,  so 

And  some  of  April  buds  and  showers, 

And  some  of  songs  in  July  bowers, 

And  all  of  love;  and  so  this  tree, — 

0  that  such  our  death  may  be! — 

Died  in  sleep,  and  felt  no  pain, 

To  live  in  happier  form  again: 

From  which,  beneath  Heaven's  fairest  star, 

The  artist  wrought  this  loved  Guitar, 

And  taught  it  justly  to  reply, 

To  all  who  question  skilfully,  eo 

In  language  gentle  as  thine  own; 

Whispering  in  enamoured  tone 

Sweet  oracles  of  woods  and  dells, 

And  summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells; 

For  it  had  learnt  all  harmonies 

Of  the  plains  and  of  the  skies, 

Of  the  forests  and  the  mountains, 

And  the  many-voiced  fountains; 

The  clearest  echoes  of  the  hills, 

The  softest  notes  of  falling  rills,  TO 

The  melodies  of  birds  and  bees, 

The  murmuring  of  summer  seas, 

And  pattering  rain,  and  breathing  dew, 

And  airs  of  evening;  and  it  knew 

That  seldom-heard  mysterious  sound, 

Which,  driven  on  its  diurnal  round, 

As  it  floats  through  boundless  day, 


SELECTIONS   PROM   SHELLEY  153 

Our  world  enkindles  on  its  way — 

All  this  it  knows,  but  will  not  tell 

To  those  who  cannot  question  well  so 

The  spirit  that  inhabits  it; 

It  talks  according  to  the  wit 

Of  its  companions;  and  no  more 

Is  heard  than  has  been  felt  before, 

By  those  who  tempt  it  to  betray 

These  secrets  of  an  elder  day: 

But  sweetly  as  its  answers  will 

Flatter  hands  of  perfect  skill, 

It  keeps  its  highest,  holiest  tone 

For  our  beloved  Jane  alone.  so 


1822.] 


After  a  sketch  by  Severn. 


JOHN   KEATS. 


wunjr  (MAW 


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Ifim.  . 


JOHN   KEATS 

Fac-simile  of  part  of  a  letter  to  Fanny  Keats,  only  pister  of  the  poet,  written  during  his  last 
illnepp,  August  14,  1820. 


SELECTIONS   FROM   KEATS 


TO  £.  A.  W.1 

Nymph  of  the  downward  smile  and  sidelong  glance, 
In  what  diviner  moments  of  the  day 
Art  thou  most  lovely? — when  gone  far  astray 

Into  the  labyrinths  of  sweet  utterance, 

Or  when  serenely  wand'ring  in  a  trance 
Of  sober  thought? — or  when  starting  away 
With  careless  robe  to  meet  the  morning  ray 

Thou  spar'st  the  flowers  in  thy  mazy  dance? 

Haply  'tis  when  thy  ruby  lips  part  sweetly, 
And  so  remain,  because  thou  listenest: 

But  thou  to  please  wert  nurtured  so  completely 
That  I  can  never  tell  what  mood  is  best. 

I  shall  as  soon  pronounce  which  Grace  more  neatly 
Trips  it  before  Apollo  than  the  rest. 

December,  1816.] 

TO  SOLITUDE. 

0  Solitude!  if  I  must  with  thee  dwell. 
Let  it  not  be  among  the  jumbled  heap 
Of  murky  buildings;  climb  with  me  to  the  steep, — 

Nature's  observatory — whence  the  dell, 


1  Georgians  Augusta  Wylie,  afterward  the  wife  of  George  Keats. 
155 


156  SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS 

Its  flowery  slopes,  its  river's  crystal  swell, 

May  seem  a  span;  let  me  thy  vigils  keep 

'Mongst  boughs  pavilion'd,1  where  the  deer's  swift  leap 
Startles  the  wild  bee  from  the  fox-glove  bell. 
But  though  I'll  gladly  trace  these  scenes  with  thee, 

Yet  the  sweet  converse  of  an  innocent  mind, 

Whose  words  are  images  of  thoughts  reh'n'd, 
Is  my  soul's  pleasure;   and  it  sure  must  be 

Almost  the  highest  bliss  of  human-kind, 
When  to  thy  haunts  two  kindred  spirits  flee. 

1816.] 


ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN'S  HOMER. 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold, 

And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen; 

Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 

That  deep-brow'd  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne; 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold: 
Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When  a  now  planet  swims  into  his  ken; 
Or  like  stout  Cortex  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  star'd  at  the  Pacific— and  all  his  men 
Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 

Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

1816.1 


1  For  verb  forms  in  ed,  the  custom  of  Keats  wan  to  write  'd  when  the  e  wan  silent, 
ed  where  Shelley  wrote  cd,  when  the  e  was  sounded.  He  did  not,  however,  consis- 
tently follow  his  own  rule. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS  157 


ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead : 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  tbe  new-mown  mead; 

That  is  the  Grasshopper's — he  takes  the  lead 
In  summer  luxury, — he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights;  for  when  tired  out  with  fun 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never: 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

lias  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 

The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 
And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost, 
The  Grasshopper's  among  the  grassy  hills. 

December  30,  1816.] 


DEDICATION. 

TO    LEIGH   HUNT,    ESQ.1 

Glory  and  loveliness  have  pass'd  away; 
For  if  we  wander  out  in  early  morn, 
No  wreathed  incense  do  we  see  upborne 

Into  the  east,  to  meet  the  smiling  day: 

No  crowd  of  nymphs  soft-voic'd  and  young,  and  gay, 
In  woven  baskets  bringing  ears  of  corn, 
Roses,  and  pinks,  and  violets,  to  adorn 

The  shrine  of  Flora  in  her  early  May. 

1  Dedication  to  the  first  volume  of  poems,  printed  in  1817. 


158  SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS 

But  there  are  left  delights  as  high  as  these, 
And  I  shall  ever  bless  my  destiny, 

That  in  a  time,  when  under  pleasant  trees 
Pan  is  no  longer  sought,  I  feel  a  free 

A  leafy  luxury,  seeing  I  could  please 

With  these  poor  offerings,  a  man  like  thee. 


THE  OPENING  STANZAS  OF  ENDYMION.1 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever: 

Its  loveliness  increases;  it  will  never 

Pass  into  nothingness;  but  still  will  keep 

A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 

Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet  breathing. 

Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  are  we  wreathing 

A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth, 

Spite  of  despondence,  of  the  inhuman  dearth 

Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days, 

Of  all  the  unhealthy  and  o'er-darkened  ways  10 

Made  for  our  searching:  yes,  in  spite  of  all, 

Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away  the  pall 

From  our  dark  spirits.    Such  the  sun,  the  moon, 

Trees  old,  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady  boon 

For  simple  sheep;  and  such  are  daffodils 

Witli  the  green  world  they  live  in :  and  clear  rills 

That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 

'Gainst  the  hot  season:  the  mid  forest  brake, 

Rich  witli  a  sprinkling  of  fair  musk-rose  blooms: 

And  such  too  is  the  grandeur  of  the  dooms  20 


1  In  proof  of  the  impression  made  by  the  genii 
upon  the  poets  who  followed,  see  not  only  the  "  Moi 
by  Coleridge,  and  references  hy  Shelley  and  Wo-ds 
"  Endyinion  "  :  "  Inscribed,  with  every  feeling  of  pr 


s  and  early  death  of  Chattel-ton 
xly  on  the  Death  of  Chatterton," 
vorth,  but  also  the  dedication  of 
le  and  rcirret,  and  with  '  a  bowed 


mind,'  to  the  memory  of  the  most  English  of  poets  except  Shakppeare,  Thomas 
Chatterton." 


SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS  159 

Wo  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead; 
All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or  read: 
An  endless  fountain  of  immortal  drink, 
Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 

Nor  do  we  merely  feel  these  essences 
For  one  short  hour;  no,  even  as  the  trees 
That  whisper  round  a  temple  become  soon 
Dear  as  the  temple's  self,  so  does  the  moon, 
The  passion  poesy,  glories  infinite, 

Haunt  us  till  they  become  a  cheering  light  so 

Unto  our  souls,  and  bound  to  us  so  fast, 
That,  whether  there  be  shine,  or  gloom  o'ercast, 
They  always  must  be  with  us,  or  we  die. 

Therefore,  'tis  with  full  happiness  that  I 
Will  trace  the  story  of  Endymion. 
The  very  music  of  the  name  has  gone 
Into  my  being,  and  each  pleasant  scene 
Is  growing  fresh  before  me  as  the  green 
Of  our  own  valleys:   so  I  will  begin 
Now  while  I  cannot  hear  the  city's  din;  40 

Now  while  the  early  budders  are  just  new, 
And  run  in  mazes  of  the  youngest  hue 
Aboiit  old  forests;  while  the  willow  trails 
Its  delicate  amber;  and  the  dairy  pails 
Bring  home  increase  of  milk.    And,  as  the  year 
Grows  lush  in  juicy  stalks,  I'll  smoothly  steer 
My  little  boat,  for  many  quiet  hours, 
With  streams  that  deepen  freshly  into  bowers. 
Many  and  many  a  verse  I  hope  to  write. 
Before  the  daisies,  vermeil  rimm'd  and  white,  so 

Hide  in  deep  herbage;  and  ere  yet  the  bees 
Hum  about  globes  of  clover  and  sweet  peas, 
I  must  be  near  the  middle  of  my  story. 


160  SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS 

0  may  no  wintry  season,  bare  and  hoary, 

See  it  half  finished:  but  let  Autumn  bold, 

With  universal  tinge  of  sober  gold, 

Be  all  about  me  when  I  make  an  end. 

And  now  at  once,  adventuresome,  I  send 

My  herald  thought  into  a  wilderness: 

There  let  its  trumpet  blow,  and  quickly  dress  GO 

My  uncertain  path  with  green,  that  I  may  speed 

Easily  onward,  thorough  flowers  and  weed. 

Upon  the  sides  of  Latinos  was  outspread 
A  mighty  forest;  for  the  moist  earth  fed 
So  plenteously  all  weed-hidden  roots 
Into  o'er-hanging  boughs,  and  precious  fruits. 
And  it  had  gloomy  shades,  sequestered  dee]), 
Where  no  man  went;  and  if  from  shepherd's  keep 
A  lamb  strayed  far  a-down  those  inmost  glens, 
Never  again  saw  he  the  happy  pens  ™ 

Whither  his  brethren,  bleating  with  content, 
Over  the  hills  at  every  nightfall  went. 
Among  the  shepherds,  'twas  believed  ever, 
That  not  one  fleecy  lamb  which  thus  did  sever 
From  the  white  flock,  but  pass'd  un worried 
P>y  angry  wolf,  or  pard  with  prying  head, 
Until  it  came  to  some  unfooted  plains 
Where  fed  the  herds  of  Pan:  aye  great  his  gains 
Who  thus  one  lamb  did  lose.    T'aths  there  were  many, 
Winding  through  palmy  fern,  and  rushes  fenny.  s° 

And  ivy  banks:  all  leading  pleasantly 
To  a  wide  biwn.  whence  one  could  only  see 
Steins  thronging  all  around  between  the  swell 
Of  turf  and  slanting  branches:   who  could  tell 
The  freshness  of  the  space  of  heaven  above, 
Kdg'd  round  with  dark  tree  tops?  through  which  a  dove 
Would  often  beat  its  wings,  and  often  too 
A  little  cloud  would  move  across  the  blue. 


SELECTIONS  FROM   KEATS  1C1 

Full  in  the  middle  of  this  pleasantness 
There  stood  a  marble  altar,  with  a  tress  90 

Of  flowers  budded  newly;  and  the  dew 
Had  taken  fairy  phantasies  to  strew 
Daisies  upon  the  sacred  sward  last  eve, 
And  so  the  dawned  light  in  pomp  receive. 
For  'twas  the  morn:  Apollo's  upward  fire 
Made  every  eastern  cloud  a  silvery  pyre 
Of  brightness  so  unsullied,  that  therein 
A  melancholy  spirit  well  might  win 
Oblivion,  and  melt  out  his  essence  fine 
Into  the  winds:  rain-scented  eglantine  100 

Gave  temperate  sweets  to  that  well-wooing  sun; 
The  lark  was  lost  in  him;  ^  cold  springs  had  run 
To  warm  their  chilliest  bubbles  in  the  grass; 
Man's  voice  was  on  the  mountains;  and  the  mass 
Of  nature's  lives  and  wonders  puls'd  tenfold, 
To  feel  this  sun-rise  and  its  glories  old. 


1817.] 


SONNET. 

ON   THE    SEA. 

It  keeps  eternal  whisperings  around 

Desolate  shores,  and  with  its  mighty  swell 
Gluts  twice  ten  thousand  caverns,  till  the  spell 

Of  Hecate  leaves  them  their  old  shadowy  sound. 

Often  'tis  in  such  gentle  temper  found, 
That  scarcely  will  the  very  smallest  shell 
Be  mov'd  for  days  from  whence  it  sometime  fell, 

When  last  the  winds  of  heaven  were  unbound. 

Oh  ye!  who  have  your  eye-balls  vex'd  and  tir'd. 
Feast  them  upon  the  wideness  of  the  Sea; 


162  SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS 

Oh  ye!  whose  ears  are  dinn'd  with  uproar  rude, 
Or  fed  too  much  with  cloying  melody, — 

Sit  ye  near  some  old  cavern's  mouth,  and  brood 
Until  ye  start,  as  if  the  sea-nymphs  quir'd! 

August,  1817.] 

SONNET. 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be 

Before  my  pen  has  glean'd  my  teeming  brain, 
]>efore  high  piled  books,  in  charactry. 

Hold  like  rich  garners  the  full  ripcn'd  grain; 
When  I  behold,  upon  the  night's  starr d  face, 

Huge  cloudy  symbols  of  a  high  romance, 
And  think  that  I  may  never  live  to  trace 

Their  shadows,  with  the  magic  hand  of  chance; 
And  when  I  feel,  fair  creature  of  an  hour, 

That  I  shall  never  look  upon  thee  more, 
Never  have  relish  in  the  faery  power 

Of  unreflecting  love; — then  on  the  shore 
Of  the  wide  world  I  stand  alone,  and  think 
Till  love  and  fame  to  nothingness  do  sink. 

1817.] 

FANCY. 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam, 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home: 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth, 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth; 

Then  let  winged  Fancy  wander 

Through  Ibe  thought  still  spread  beyond  her: 

Open  wide  the  mind's  cage-door, 

She'll  dart  forth,  and  cloudward  soar. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS  163 

0  sweet  Fancy!  let  her  loose; 

Summer's  joys  are  spoilt  by  use,  10 

And  the  enjoying  of  the  Spring 

Fades  as  does  its  blossoming; 

Autumn's  red-lipp'd  fruitage  too, 

Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew, 

Cloys  with  tasting:    What  do  then? 

Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 

The  sear  faggot  blazes  bright, 

Spirit  of  a  winter's  night; 

When  the  soundless  earth  is  muffled, 

And  the  caked  snow  is  shuffled  20 

From  the  ploughboy's  heavy  shoon; 

When  the  Night  doth  meet  the  Noon 

In  a  dark  conspiracy 

To  banish  Even  from  her  sky. 

Sit  thee  there,  and  send  abroad, 

With  a  mind  self-overaw'd, 

Fancy,  high-commission'd: — send  her! 

She  has  vassals  to  attend  her: 

She  will  bring,  in  spite  of  frost, 

Beauties  that  the  earth  hath  lost;  so 

She  will  bring  thee,  all  together, 

All  delights  of  summer  weather; 

All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May, 

From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  spray; 

All  the  heaped  Autumn's  wealth, 

With  a  still,  mysterious  stealth: 

She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 

Like  three  fit  wines  in  a  cup, 

And  thou  shalt  quaff  it: — thou  shalt  hear 

Distant  harvest-carols  cloar;  40 

Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn: 

Sweet  birds  antheming  the  morn: 

And,  in  the  same  moment — hark! 


164  SELECTIONS  FROM   KEATS 

?Tis  the  early  April  lark, 

Or  the  rooks,,  with  busy  ea\v. 

Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw. 

Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 

The  daisy  and  the  marigold; 

White-plum'd  lilies,  and  the  first 

Hedge-grown  primrose  that  hath  burst;  so 

Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 

Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid-May; 

And  every  leaf,  and  every  flower 

Pearled  with  the  self-same  shower. 

Thou  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 

Meagre  from  its  celled  sleep; 

And  the  snake  all  winter-thin 

Cast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin; 

Freckled  nest-eggs  thou  shalt  see 

Hatching  in  the  hawthorn-tree,  co 

When  the  hen-bird's  wing  doth  rest 

Quiet  on  her  mossy  nest; 

Then  the  hurry  and  alarm 

When  the  bee-hive  casts  its  swarm; 

Acorns  ripe  down-pattering, 

While  the  autumn  breezes  sing. 

Oh,  sweet  Fancy!  let  her  loose; 
Everything  is  spoilt  by  use: 
Where's  the  check  that  doth  not  fade. 
Too  much  gaz'd  at?    Where's  the  maid  TO 

Whose  lip  mature  is  ever  new? 
Where's  the  eye,  however  blue, 
Doth  not  weary?    Where's  the  face 
One  would  meet  in  every  place? 
Where's  the  voice,  however  soft 
One  would  hear  so  very  oft  ? 
At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth 


SELECTIONS  FROM   KEATS  1G5 

Like  to  Inibbles  when  rain  pelteth. 

Let,  then,  winged  Fancy  find 

Thee  a  mistress  to  thy  mind:  so 

Dulcet-eyed  as  Ceres'  daughter, 

Ere  the  God  of  Torment  taught  her 

]Iow  to  frown  and  how  to  chide; 

With  a  waist  and  with  a  side 

White  as  Hebe's,  when  her  7.0110 

Slipt  its  golden  clasp,  and  down 

Fell  her  kirtle  to  her  feet, 

While  she  held  the  goblet  sweet, 

And  Jove  grew  languid. — Break  the  mesh 

Of  the  Fancy's  silken  leash;  90 

Quickly  break  her  prison-string 

And  such  joys  as  these  she'll  bring. — 

Let  the  winged  Fancy  roam, 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home. 


1818.] 


ODE.1 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 

Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth! 

Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too, 

Double-lived  in  regions  new? 

Yes,  and  those  of  heaven  commune 

With  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon; 

With  the  noise  of  fountains  wond'rous, 

And  the  parle  of  voices  tlmnd'rons; 

With  the  whisper  of  heaven's  trees 

And  one  another,  in  soft  ease  10 


1  Written  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Trngi-Comedy.  "  The  Fair  Maid  of  the  Inn," 
and  hence,  as  Forman  suggests,  addressed,  not  to  poets  in  general,  but  to  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher. 


166  SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS 

Seated  on  Elysian  lawns 

Brows'd  by  none  but  Dian's  fawns; 

Underneath  large  blue-bells  tented, 

Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented, 

And  the  rose  herself  has  got 

Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not; 

Where  the  nightingale  doth  sing 

Not  a  senseless,  tranced  thing, 

But  divine  melodious  truth; 

Philosophic  numbers  smooth;  20 

Talcs  and  golden  histories 

Of  heaven  and  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again; 
And  the  souls  ye  left  behind  you 
Teach  us,  here,  the  way  to  find  you, 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying, 
Xever  slumber'd,  never  cloying. 
Here,  your  earth-born  souls  still  speak 
To  mortals,  of  their  little  week;  so 

Of  their  sorrows  and  delights; 
Of  their  passions  and  their  spites; 
Of  their  glory  and  their  shame; 
What  doth  strengthen  and  what  maim. 
Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day, 
Wisdom,  though  fled  far  away. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth! 
Ye  have  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new!  *o 


SELECTIONS  PROM  KEATS  107 


LINES  ON  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN.1 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 

What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 

Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 

Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 

Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine 

Than  mine  host's  Canary  wine? 

Or  are  fruits  of  Paradise 

Sweeter  than  those  dainty  pies 

Of  venison?    0  generous  food! 

Drest  as  though  hold  Robin  Hood  10 

Would,  with  his  maid  Marian, 

Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can. 

I  have  heard  that  on  a  day 
Mine  host's  sign-board  flew  away, 
Nobody  knew  whither,  till 
An  astrologer's  old  quill 
To  a  sheepskin  gave  the  story, 
Said  he  saw  you  in  your  glory, 
Underneath  a  new  old-sign 
Sipping  beverage  divine,  20 

And  pledging  with  contented  smack 
The  Mermaid  in  the  Zodiac. 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern. 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 


1818.] 


The  meeting-place  of  Shakspere  and  the  other  poets  of  hie  time. 


168  SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE.1 

1. 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 

My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk: 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 
But  being  too  happy  in  thine  happiness, — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 

In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  greon,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

2. 

0,  for  a  draught  of  vintage!    that  hath  been 

Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 

Dance,  and  Frovengal  song,  and  sunburnt  mirth! 
0  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 

Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  TTippoerene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 

And  purple-stained  mouth: 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 

And  with  thce  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim: 

3. 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 

The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

TTcre,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan; 


1  Written  durinp  the  depression  caused  by  the  death  of  Kcate'R  brother,  Tom,  and 
his  own  illneRB. 


SELECTIONS  FROM   KEATS  169 

Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs, 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  he  full  of  sorrow 

And  leaden-eyed  despairs, 
Where  Beauty  eannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

4. 

Away!  away!  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards: 
Already  with  thee!   tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Clnster'd  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays; 

But.  here  there  is  no  light, 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 

Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy  ways. 

5. 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Xor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine; 
Fast  fading  violets  cover'd  up  in  leaves; 

And  mid- May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 

6. 

Darkling  T  listen;  and,  for  many  a  time 
I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 


170  SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS 

Call'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 

In  such  an  ecstasy! 

Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

7. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thec  down; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown: 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  IJuth,  when,  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn; 

The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

8. 

Forlorn !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self! 
Adieu!  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  fam'd  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu!  adieu!  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hillside;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 

In  the  next  valley-glades: 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream? 

Fled  is  that  music: — Do  I  wake  or  sleep? 

May,  1819.] 


SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS  171 


ODE  ON  A  GKECIAN  UBN. 

1. 

Thou  still  imravish'd  bride  of  quietness, 

Thou  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow  time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme : 
What  leaf-fring'd  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 

What  men  or  gods  are  these?    What  maidens  loth? 
What  mad  pursuit?    What  struggle  to  escape? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels?    What  wild  ecstasy? 

2. 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear'd, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone: 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do  not  grieve; 

She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair! 

3. 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs!  that  cannot  shed 
Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu; 

And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 
For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new; 


172  SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS 

More  happy  love!  more  happy,  happy  love! 
For  ever  warm  and  still  to  he  enjoy'd, 

For  ever  panting,  and  for  ever  young; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloy'd, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 

4. 

Who  arc  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 

To  what  green  altar,  ()  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  ilanks  with  garlands  drest? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore, 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 

Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 

Will  silent  be;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 


5. 

0  Attic  shape!  Fair  attitude!  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed; 

Thou,  silent  form,  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity:   Cold  Pastoral! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 

Thou  shall  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man.  to  whom  thou  say'st, 

"  I'x-auty  is  truth,  truth  beauty," — that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 

1819.] 


SELECTIONS   FROM  KEATS  173 


ODE  TO  PSYCHE. 

0  Goddess!  hear  these  tuneless  numbers,  wrung 
By  sweet  enforcement  and  remembrance  dear, 

And  pardon  that  thy  secrets  should  be  sung 

Even  into  thine  own  soft-conched  ear: 
Surely  I  dreamt  to-day,  or  did  I  see 

The  winged  Psyche  with  awaken'd  eyes? 

1  wander'd  in  a  forest  thoughtlessly, 

And,  on  the  sudden,  fainting  with  surprise, 
Saw  two  fair  creatures,  couched  side  by  side 

In  deepest  grass,  beneath  the  whisp'ring  roof  10 

Of  leaves  and  trembled  blossoms,  where  there  ran 
A  brooklet,  scarce  espy'd: 

'Mid  hush'd,  cool-rooted  flowers,  fragrant-eyed, 

Blue,  silver-white,  and  budded  Tyrian, 
They  lay  calm-breathing,  on  the  bedded  grass; 

Their  arms  embraced,  and  their  pinions  too; 

Their  lips  touch'd  not,  but  had  not  bade  adieu, 
As  if  disjoined  by  soft-handed  slumber, 
And  ready  still  past  kisses  to  outnumber 

At  tender  eye-dawn  of  aurorean  love:  20 

The  winged  boy  I  knew; 

But  who  wast  thou,  0  happy,  happy  dove? 
His  Psyche  true! 

0  latest  born  and  loveliest  vision  far 

Of  all  Olympus'  faded  hierarchy! 
Fairer  than  Pluiebe's  sapphire-region'd  star, 

Or  Vesper,  amorous  glow-worm  of  the  sky; 
Fairer  than  these,  though  temple  thou  hast  none, 
r  altar  heap'd  with  flowers; 


174  SELECTIONS  FROM   KEATS 

Nor  virgin-choir  to  make  delicious  moan  so 

Upon  the  midnight  hours; 
N"o  voice,  no  lute,  no  pipe,  no  incense  sweet 

From  chain-swung  censer  teeming; 
No  shrine,  no  grove,  no  oracle,  no  heat 

Of  pale-mouth'd  prophet  dreaming. 

0  brightest!  though  too  late  for  antique  vows, 
Too,  too  late  for  the  fond  believing  lyre, 

When  holy  were  the  haunted  forest  boughs, 

Holy  the  air,  the  water,  and  the  fire; 
Yet  even  in  these  days  so  far  retir'd  40 

From  happy  pieties,  thy  lucent  fans, 

Fluttering  among  the  faint  Olympians, 

1  see,  and  sing,  by  my  own  eyes  inspir'd. 
So  let  me  be  thy  choir,  and  make  a  moan 

Upon  the  midnight  hours; 
Thy  voice,  thy  lute,  thy  pipe,  thy  incense  sweet 

From  swinged  censer  teeming; 
Thy  shrine,  thy  grove,  thy  oracle,  thy  heat 

Of  pale-mouth'd  prophet  dreaming. 

Yes,  I  will  be  thy  priest,  and  build  a  fane  50 

In  some  untrodden  region  of  my  mind, 
Where  branched  thoughts,  new  grown  with  pleasant  pain, 

Instead  of  pines  shall  murmur  in  the  wind: 
Far,  far  around  shall  those  dark-clustcr'd  trees 

Fledge  the  wild-ridged  mountains  steep  by  steep; 
And  there  by  zephyrs,  streams,  and  birds,  and  bees, 

The  moss-lain  Dryads  shall  be  lull'd  to  sleep; 
And  in  the  midst  of  this  wide  quietness 
A  rosy  sanctuary  will  I  dress 
With  the  wreath'd  trellis  of  a  working  brain,  GO 

With  buds,  and  bells,  and  stars  without  a  name, 
With  all  the  gardener  Fancy  e'er  could  feign, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS  175 

Who  breeding  flowers,  will  never  breed  the  same: 
And  there  shall  be  for  thce  all  soft  delight 

That  shadowy  thought  can  win, 
A  bright  torch,  and  a  casement  ope  at  night, 

To  let  the  warm  Love  in! 

April,  1819.] 

TO  AUTUMN. 

1. 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness, 
Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun; 

Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eves  run; 

To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage-trees, 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core; 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 

With  a  sweet  kernel;  to  set  budding  more, 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease, 

For  Summer  has  o'er-brimm'd  their  clammy  cells. 

2. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor. 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind; 
Or  on  a  half-reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep, 

Drows'd  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 

Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers: 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook; 

Or  by  a  cyder-press,  with  patient  look, 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings  hours  by  hours. 


176  SELECTIONS  FROM   KEATS 

3. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?  Ay,  where  are  they? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, — 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 

Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn; 

Hedge-crickets  sing;  and  now  with  treble  soft 

The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft; 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 

September,  181'J.] 

ODE  OX   MELANCHOLY. 

1. 

No,  no,  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 

Wolfs-bane,  tight-rooted,  for  its  poisonous  wine; 
Nor  suffer  thy  pale  forehead  to  be  kiss'd 

By  nightshade,  ruby  grape  of  Proserpine; 
Make  not  your  rosary  of  yew-berries, 

Nor  let  the  beetle,  nor  the  death-moth  be 

Your  mournful  Psyche,  nor  the  downy  owl 
A  partner  in  your  sorrow's  mysteries; 

For  shade  to  shade  will  come  too  drowsily, 
And  drown  the  wakeful  anguish  of  the  soul. 

2. 

P)iit  when  the  melancholy  fit  shall  fall 

Sudden  from  heaven  like  a  weeping  cloud, 

That  fosters  the  droop-headed  flowers  all, 
And  hides  the  green  hill  in  an  April  shroud; 


SELECTIONS  PROM  KEATS  177 

Then  glut  thy  sorrow  on  a  morning  rose, 
Or  on  the  rainbow  of  the  salt  sand-wave, 

Or  on  the  wealth  of  globed  peonies; 
Or  if  thy  mistress  some  rich  anger  shows, 
Emprison  her  soft  hand,  and  let  her  rave, 
And  feed  deep,  deep  upon  her  peerless  eyes. 

3. 

She  dwells  with  Scanty — Beauty  that  must  die; 

And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips 
Kidding  adieu;  and  aching  Pleasure  nigh, 

Turning  to  poison  while  the  bee-mouth  sips: 
Ay,  in  the  very  temple  of  Delight 

Vcil'd  Melancholy  has  her  sovran  shrine, 

Though  seen  of  none  save  him  whose  strenuous  tongue 
Can  burst  Joy's  grape  against  his  palate  fine; 

His  soul  shall  taste  the  sadness  of  her  might, 
And  be  among  her  cloudy  trophies  hung. 


THE  EYE    OF  ST.  AGNES.1 


St.  Agnes'  Eve — Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was! 

The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold; 

The  hare  limp'd  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass, 

And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold: 

Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers,  while  he  told 


1  January  20th. 

For  a  running  commentary  on  the  poem,  see  Leigh  Hunt'*  "Imagination  and 
Fancy,"  pace  300.    [Smith  &  Elder,  1SS3.] 
For  variant  readings,  see  Forman's  edition  of  Keats. 
12 


178  SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS 

His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven,  without  a  death, 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he  saith. 

II. 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees, 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan, 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees: 
The  sculptur'd  dead,  on  each  side,  seem  to  freeze, 
Emprison'd  in  black,  purgatorial  rails: 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'rics, 
He  passeth  by;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails. 

in. 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's  golden  tongue 
Flatter'd  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor; 
But  no — already  bad  his  deathbell  rung; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung: 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve: 
Another  way  lie  went,  and  soon  among 
l?ough  asbes  sat  be  for  bis  soul's  reprieve, 
And  all  nigbt  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake  to  grieve. 

IV. 

That  ancient  Beadsman  beard  the  prelude  soft; 
And  so  it  cbanc'd.  for  many  a  door  was  wide, 
From  burry  to  and  fro.   Soon,  up  aloft, 
Tbe  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gnn  to  chide: 
The  level  obambers,  ready  with  their  pride, 


SELECTIONS  PROM  KEATS  179 

Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests: 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 
Star'd,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests, 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross-wise  on  their 
breasts. 

v. 

At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  faerily 
The  brain,  new  stuff' d,  in  youth,  with  triumphs  gay 
Of  old  romance.    These  let  us  wish  away, 
And  turn,  soul-thoughted,  to  one  Lady  there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day, 
On  love,  and  wing'd  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care, 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  declare. 


VI. 


They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight, 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honey'd  middle  of  the  night, 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright; 
As,  supperlcss  to  bed  they  must  retire, 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white; 
Xor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they  desire. 

VII. 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline: 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain, 
She  scarcely  heard:  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 


180  SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS 

Pass  by — she  heeded  not  at  all:  in  vain 
Came  man}'  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier, 
And  back  retir'd;  not  cool'd  by  high  disdain, 
But  she  saw  not:   her  heart  was  otherwhere: 
She  sigh'd  for  Agnes'  dreams.,  the  sweetest  of  the  year. 


VIII. 

She  danc'd  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short: 
The  hallow'd  hour  was  near  at  hand:   she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  throng'd  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport; 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Iloodwink'd  with  faery  fancy;  all  amort, 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn,1 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 


IX. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 
She  linger'd  still.    Meantime,  across  the  moors, 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.    P>eside  the  portal  doors, 
P>uttress'd  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
]>ut  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss — in  sooth  such  things 
have  been. 


1  The  offering  to  St.  A^nes  wan  two  unshorn  lambs ;  the  wool  was  afterwards 
carded  and  spun  by  the  nuns.    Cf.  Stan/a  XIII.,  lines  7-9. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS  181 


X. 

Ho  ventures  in:  let  no  buzz'd  whisper  tell: 
All  eyes  be  muilled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart,  Love's  fev'rous  citadel: 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes, 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords, 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage:  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul, 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul. 

XT. 

Ah,  happy  chance!  the  aged  creature  came, 
Sbuilliiig  along  with  ivory-headed  wand. 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame, 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland: 
lie  startled  her;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face. 
And  grasp'd  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand, 
Saying,  "  Mercy,  Porphyro!  hie  thec  from  this  place; 
"  They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  blood-thirsty  race! 

XII. 

"Clot  hence!   get  hence!   there's  dwarfish  Ilildcbrand: 

"  lie  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 

"  He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land: 

"  Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 

"  More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs — Alas  me!   flit! 

"  Flit  like  a  ghost  away." — "Ah.  Gossip  dear, 

"  We're  safe  enough;  here  in  this  arm-chair  sit, 

"  And  tell  me  how"—"  Good  Saints!     Xot  here,  not 

here; 
"  Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy  bier." 


182  SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS 


XIII. 

He  follow'd  through  a  lowly  arched  way, 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume, 
And  as  she  mutter'd  "  Well-a —  well-a-day!  " 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room, 
Pale,  lattic'd,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"  Xow  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
"  0  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
"  Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see, 
"  When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously." 

XIV. 

"  St.  Agnes!  Ah!  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve— 
"  Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days: 
"  Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve, 
"  And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays, 
"  To  venture  so:  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
"  To  see  thee,  Porphyro! —  St.  Agnes'  Eve! 
"  God's  help!  my  lady  fair  the  conjuror  plays 
"  This  very  night:  good  angels  her  deceive! 
"  But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I've  inicklc  time  to  grieve." 

xv. 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon. 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who  keepeth  clos'd  a  wond'rous  riddle-book, 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she  {old 
His  lady's  purpose;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold, 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS  183 


XVI. 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot:  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start: 
"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art : 
"  Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep,  and  dream 
"  Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
"  From  wicked  men  like  thee.    Go,  go!— I  deem 
"  Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou  didst  seem." 

XVII. 

"  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear," 
Quoth  Porphyro:  "  0  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
"  When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last  prayer, 
"  If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
"  Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face: 
"  Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears; 
"  Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space, 
"  Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's  ears, 
"  And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fang'd  than  wolves 
and  bears." 

XVIII. 

"  Ah!  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul? 
"  A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  churchyard  thing, 
"Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll; 
"Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening, 
"  Were  never  miss'd." — Thus  plaining,  doth  she  bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro; 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing, 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  woe. 


184  SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS 


XIX. 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy, 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride, 
While  legion'd  faeries  pac'd  the  coverlet, 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met, 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous  debt.1 

xx. 

"  Tt  shall  be  as  thou  wishcst,"  said  the  Dame: 
"  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
"  Quickly  on  this  feast-night:   by  the  tambour  frame 
"  Tier  own  lute  thou  wilt  see:  no  time  to  spare, 
"  For  T  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
"  On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
"  Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience;  kneel  in  prayer 
"  The  while:   Ah!  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed, 
"  Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead." 

XXI. 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd: 
The  (lame  return'd,  and  whisper'd  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her:  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last. 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  liush'd.  and  chaste; 
Where  T'orphyro  took  covert,  pleasY!  amain. 
TTis  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her  brain. 


1  Cf . Tcnnj'Hon'H  "Vivian." 


SELECTIONS  FROM   K.KATS3  185 


XX1L 

Her  falt'ring  hand  upon  the  balustrade, 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid, 
Rose,  like  a  mission'd  spirit,  unaware: 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 
She  turn'd,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.    Xow  prepare, 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed; 
She  conies,  she  conies  again,  like  ring-dove  fray'd  and  fled, 

XXIII. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in; 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died: 
She  clos'd  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide: 
No  uttered  syllable,  or,  woe  betide! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side; 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled,  in  her  dell. 

XXIV. 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arch 'd  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imag'ries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damask'd  wings; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries. 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blush'd  with  blood  of  queen?  and 
kings. 


186  SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS 


XXV. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast/ 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint: 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven: — Porphyro  grew  faint: 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint. 


XXVI. 

Anon  his  heart  revives:   her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  boddice;   by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees: 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 

xxvir. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex'd  she  lay, 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppress'd 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away; 


1  The  fact  that  the  lipht  of  the  moon  is  not  strong  enough  to  cast  colored  shadows 
does  not  make  thin  stanza  a  blemish  upon  the  poem  ;  nor  is  it  necessary  to  resort  to 
Foreman's  expedient  of  rcirardiiiL'  the  phenomenon  as  a  miracle  performed  by  St. 
Agnes.  There  is  poetic  if  not  scientific  truth  in  it. 


SELECTIONS   FROM  KEATS  187 

Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day; 
Blissfully  haven' d  both  from  joy  and  pain; 
Clasp'd  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 

XXVIII. 

Stol'n  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyru  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress, 
And  listened  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless, 
And  breath'd  himself:  then  from  the  closet  crept, 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness, 
And  over  the  hush'd  carpet,  silent,  stept, 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peep'd,  where,  lo! — how  fast  she 
slept. 

XXIX. 

Then  by  the  bed-side,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half  anguish'd,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet: — 
0  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion. 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet, 
All'ray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone: — 
The  hall  door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone.. 

XXX. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavender'd, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd; 


188  SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS 

With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From  Fez;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Sainareand  to  cedar'd  Lebanon. 


XXXI. 

These  delicates  he  heap'd  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver:  sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light. — 
"  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake! 
"Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  1  thine  eremite: 
"  Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake, 
"  Or  1  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth  ache.'' 

XXXII. 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.    Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains: — 'twas  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream: 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies: 
It  seem'd  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  stedl'ast  spell  his  lady's  eyes: 
So  inus'd  awhile,  entoil'd  in  woofed  phantasies. 

XXXIII. 

Awakening  up,  lie  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and.  in  chords  that  tenderest  be, 
Tie  play'd  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute. 
In  Provence  call'd,  "  La  belle  dame  sans  mercv:  " 


SELECTIONS  FROM   KEATS  189 

Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody; — 
Wherewith  disturb'd,  she  utter'd  a  soft  moan: 
He  ceased — she  panted  quick — and  suddenly 
Her  blue  aff rayed  eyes  wide  open  shone: 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured  stone. 

xxxiv. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep: 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  expell'd 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh; 
.  While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep; 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye, 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  look'd  so  dreamingly. 

XXXV. 

"  Ah,  Porphyro!  "  said  she,  "  but  even  now 
''  Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 
''  Made  tuneable  with  every  sweetest  vow; 
"  And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear: 
"•'  How  chang'd  thou  art!   how  pallid,  chill,  and  drear! 
"  (Jive  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
"•  Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear! 
"  Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 
"  For  if  thou  diest,  my  love,  I  know  not  where  to  go." 

XXXVI. 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassion'd  far 
At'these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flush'd,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose: 


190  SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS 

Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odour  with  the  violet, — 
Solution  sweet:  meantime  the  frost-wind  blows 
Like  Love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes;   St.  Agnes'  moon  hath  set. 

XXXVII. 

'Tis  dark:   quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet: 
"  This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline!  " 
'Tis  dark:  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat: 
"  Xo  dream,  alas!  alas!  and  woe  is  mine! 
"  Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and  pine. — 
"  Cruel!   what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring? 
'"  I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
"  Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing; — 
"  A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned  wing." 

XXXVIII. 

"  My  Madeline!  sweet  dreamer!  lovely  bride! 
"  Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest? 
"  Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shap'd  and  vermeil  dyed? 
"  Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  T  take  my  rest 
"  After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
"  A  famish'd  pilgrim, — saved  by  miracle. 
"  Though  T  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest 
"  Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;   if  thou  think'st  well 
"  To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 

XXXIX. 

"  TTark!   'tis  an  el  fin -storm  from  faery  laud, 
"Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed: 
"  Arise — arise!   the  morning  is  at  band: — 
"The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed: — 


SELECTIONS  FROM   KEATS  191 

"  Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed; 
"  There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see, — 
"  Drown'd  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead: 
"  Awake!   arise!   my  love,  and  fearless  be, 
"  For  o'er  the  southern  moors  1  have  a  home  for  thee." 


XL. 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears, 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around, 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  spears — 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found. — 
In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A  chain-droop'd  lamp  was  flickering  by  each  door; 
The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk,  and  hound, 
Flutter'd  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor. 


XLI. 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall; 
Like  phantoms,  to  the  iron  porch,  they  glide; 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side: 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide, 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns: 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide: — 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones: — 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans. 

XLIT. 

And  they  are  gone:  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe. 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and  form 


192  SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS 

Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm, 
Were  long  be-nightmar'd.    Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitch'd,  with  meagre  face  deform; 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told, 
For  aye  unsought  for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SAXS  MERCI. 

1. 

Ah,  what  can  ail  thee,  wretched  wight,1 

Alone  and  palely  loitering; 
The  sedge  is  wither'd  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 

2. 

Ah,  what  can  ail  thee,  wretched  wight,1 
So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone  ? 

The  squirrel's  granary  is  full, 
And  the  harvest's  done. 

3. 

I  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow. 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew; 
And  on  thy  check  a  fading  rose 

Fast  withereth  too. 

4. 
I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads 

Full  beautiful,  a  faery's  child: 
Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light. 

And  her  eyes  were  wild. 


1  This  is  the  reading  in  The  Indicator  for  May  10,  1820  (published  by  Leigh  Hunt). 
Lord  Houghton'c  copy  read?  :  O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-anns  For  other  varia- 
tions consult  Forman's  Keate. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS  193 

5. 

I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed, 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long; 
For  sideways  would  she  lean,  and  sing 

A  faery's  song. 

6. 

I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone; 
She  look'd  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan. 

7. 

She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 

And  honey  wild,  and  manna  dew; 
And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said, 

I  love  thee  true. 


She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot,1 

And  there  she  gazed  and  sighed  deep, 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild  sad  eyes 

So  kiss'd  to  sleep. 

9. 

And  there  we  slumber'd  on  the  moss, 
And  there  I  dream'd,  ah  woe  betide, 

The  latest  dream  I  ever  dream'd 
On  the  cold  hillside. 


1  Lord  Houghton's  version  reads : 

She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 

And  there  she  wept,  and  sigh'd  full  sore, 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild,  wild  eyes 

With  kisses  four. 
13 


194  SELECTIONS  PROM  KEATS 


10. 

I  saw  pale  kings,  and  princes  too, 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all; 

Who  cry'd — "  La  belle  Dame  sans  merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall!  " 

11. 

I  saw  their  starv'd  lips  in  the  gloom 
With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide, 

And  I  awoke,  and  found  me  here 
On  the  cold  hillside. 

12. 

And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the  sedge  is  wither'd  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 


SONNET.1 

Bright  star,  would  I  were  stedfast  as  thou  art — 

Not  in  lone  splendour  hung  aloft  the  night 
And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart, 

Like  nature's  patient,  sleepless  Eremite, 
The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 

Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores, 
Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft-fallen  mask 

Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors — 


1  Written  on  a  page  facing  "A  Lover'n  Complaint,"  in  a  copy  of  Shakspere  given 
by  John  Hamilton  Reynolds  to  Keatw,  and  by  him  to  Severn.  Composed  in  Dorset- 
shire, where  Keats  and  Severn  had  landed  on  their  way  to  Italy.  They  are  the 
last  line*  known  to  have  been  written  by  Keats 


SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS  195 

No — yet  still  stedfast,  still  unchangeable, 
Pillow'd  upon  my  fair  love's  ripening  breast, 

To  feel  for  ever  its  soft  fall  and  swell, 
Awake  for  ever  in  a  sweet  unrest, 

Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath,, 
And  so  live  ever — or  else  swoon  to  death. 

September  (?),  1820.] 


LORD   BYRON 


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SELECTIONS   FROM   BYRON 


"SHE   WALKS   IX   BEAUTY." 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies; 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes: 

Thus  mellow'd  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impair'd  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face; 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  so  eloquent. 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent! 


197 


198  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB.1 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the  sea, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Summer  is  green, 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen: 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Autumn  hath  blown, 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  wither'd  and  strown. 

For  the  angel  of  death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast,          10 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  pass'd; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  wax'd  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heav'd  and  forever  grew  still! 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  roll'd  not  the  breath  of  his  pride; 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf. 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 

With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on  his  mail; 

And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 

The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown.  20 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temples  of  Baal; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord! 
Published  1815.] 

1  See  "  Isaiah ''  xxxvii.  14-30. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON  199 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 

There  be  none  of  Beauty's  daughters 

With  a  magic  like  thee; 
And  like  music  on  the  waters 

Is  thy  sweet  voice  to  me: 
When,  as  if  its  sound  were  causing 
The  charmed  ocean's  pausing 
The  waves  lie  still  and  gleaming, 
And  the  lull'd  winds  seem  dreaming. 

And  the  midnight  moon  is  weaving 
Her  bright  chain  o'er  the  deep; 

Whose  breast  is  gently  heaving, 
As  an  infant's  sleep: 

So  the  spirit  bows  before  thee, 

To  listen  and  adore  thee; 

With  a  full  but  soft  emotion, 

Like  the  swell  of  Summer's  ocean. 


STANZAS  TO  AUGUSTA.1 

Though  the  day  of  my  destiny's  over, 

And  the  star  of  my  fate  hath  declined, 
Thy  soft  heart  refused  to  discover 

The  faults  which  so  many  could  find; 
Though  thy  soul  with  my  grief  was  acquainted, 

It  shrunk  not  to  share  it  with  me. 
And  the  love  which  my  spirit  hath  painted 

It  never  hath  found  but  in  tliee. 


1  Byron's  half  sister,  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Leigh,  for  whom  Byron  always  felt  the 
deepest  affection,  and  who  was  with  him  during  his  trouble  with  Lady  Byron. 


200  SELECTIONS  FROM   BYRON 

Then  when  nature  around  me  is  smiling, 

The  last  smile  which  answers  to  mine,  10 

I  do  not  believe  it  beguiling, 

Because  it  reminds  me  of  thine; 
And  when  winds  are  at  war  with  the  ocean, 

As  the  breasts  I  believed  in  with  me, 
If  their  billows  excite  an  emotion, 

It  is  that  they  bear  me  from  thee. 

Though  the  rock  of  my  last  hope  is  shiver'd, 

And  its  fragments  are  sunk  in  the  wave, 
Though  I  feel  that  my  soul  is  deliver'd 

To  pain — it  shall  not  be  its  slave.  20 

There  is  many  a  pang  to  pursue  me: 

They  may  crush,  but  they  shall  not  contemn — 
They  may  torture,  but  shall  not  subdue  me — 

'Tis  of  thee  that  I  think — not  of  them. 

Though  human,  thou  didst  not  deceive  me, 

Though  woman,  thou  didst  not  forsake, 
Though  loved,  thou  forborest  to  grieve  me. 

Though  slander'd,  thou  never  couldst  shake, — 
Though  trusted,  thou  didst  not  disclaim  me, 

Though  parted,  it  was  not  to  fly,  so 

Though  watchful,  'twas  not  to  defame  me, 

Nor,  mute,  that  the  world  might  belie. 

Yet  I  blame  not  the  world,  nor  despise  it, 

Xor  the  war  of  the  many  with  one; 
If  my  soul  was  not  fitted  to  prize  it, 

'Twns  folly  not  sooner  to  shun: 
And  if  dearly  that  error  hath  cost  me. 

And  more  than  I  once  could  foresee, 
I  have  found  that,  whatever  i(  lost  me, 

It  could  not  deprive  me  of  thee.  4° 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON  201 

From  the  wreck  of  the  past,  which  hath  perish'd, 

Thus  much  I  at  least  may  recall, 
It  hath  taught  me  that  what  I  most  cherish'd 

Deserved  to  be  dearest  of  all: 
In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing, 

In  the  wide  waste  there  still  is  a  tree, 
And  a  bird  in  the  solitude  singing, 

Which  speaks  to  my  spirit  of  tliee. 
July  24,  1816.] 

THE  DREAM.1 


Our  life  is  twofold :  Sleep  hath  its  own  world, 

A  boundary  between  the  things  misnamed 

Death  and  existence:  Sleep  hath  its  own  world, 

And  a  wide  realm  of  wild  reality. 

And  dreams  in  their  developement  have  breath, 

And  tears,  and  tortures,  and  the  touch  of  joy; 

They  leave  a  weight  upon  our  waking  thoughts, 

They  take  a  weight  from  off  our  waking  toils, 

They  do  divide  our  being;   they  become 

A  portion  of  ourselves  as  of  our  time,  10 

And  look  like  heralds  of  eternity; 

They  pass  like  spirits  of  the  past, — they  speak 

Like  sibyls  of  the  future;  they  have  power — 

The  tyranny  of  pleasure  and  of  pain ; 

They  make  us  what  we  were  not — what  they  will, 

And  shake  us  with  the  vision  that's  gone  by. 

The  dread  of  vanish'd  shadows — Are  they  so? 

Is  not  the  past  all  shadow?    What  are  they? 

1  Byron's  imagination  was  fired  by  his  love  for  Mary  Chaworth,  for  their  union 
would  have  healed  a  family  feud.  Moore  says  that  "The  Dream"  "  cost  him  many 
a  tear  in  writing."  It  was  written  in  Switzerland,  in  the  summer  of  1S16,  when  he 
was  still  suffering  from  the  deadly  attacks  of  Lady  Byron's  friends. 


202  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

Creations  of  the  mind? — The  mind  can  make 
Substance,  and  people  planets  of  its  own  20 

With  beings  brighter  than  have  been,  and  give 
A  breath  to  forms  which  can  outlive  all  ilesh. 
I  would  recall  a  vision  which  I  dream'd 
Perchance  in  sleep — for  in  itself  a  thought, 
A  slumbering  thought,  is  capable  of  years, 
And  curdles  a  long  life  into  one  hour. 

IT. 

I  saw  two  beings  in  the  hues  of  youth 

Standing  upon  a  hill,  a  gentle  hill, 

Green  and  of  mild  declivity,  the  last 

As 't  were  the  cape  of  a  long  ridge  of  such,  so 

Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base, 

But  a  most  living  landscape,  and  the  wave 

Of  woods  and  cornfields,  and  the  abodes  of  men 

Scatter'd  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 

Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs; — the  hill 

Was  crown'd  with  a  peculiar  diadem 

Of  trees,1  in  circular  array,  so  fix'd, 

Xot  by  the  sport  of  nature,  but  of  man: 

Those  two,  a  maiden  and  a  youth,  were  there 

0 axing — the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath  <o 

Fair  as  herself — but  the  boy  gaxed  on  her; 

And  both  were  young,  and  one  was  beautiful: 

And  both  were  young — yet  not  alike  in  youth. 

As  the  sweet  moon  on  the  horizon's  verge, 

The  maid  was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood; 

The  boy  had  fewer  summers,  but  bis  heart 

TTad  far  outgrown  his  years,  and  to  his  eye 

There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth. 


1  The  "diadem  of  trees"  has  long  ceased  to  Ptand  ;  in  a  fit  of  jealous  anper  at  the 
poem,  Mr  Muster?  levelled  the  place  with  the  ground.     El/e's  "  Byron,"  p.  48. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON  203 

And  that  was  shining  on  him;  he  had  look'd 

Upon  it  till  it  could  not  pass  away;  50 

He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  hers: 

She  was  his  voice;  he  did  not  speak  to  her, 

But  trembled  on  her  words;  she  was  his  sight, 

For  his  eye  follow'd  hers,  and  saw  with  hers, 

Which  colour'd  all  his  objects: — he  had  ceased 

To  live  within  himself;  she  was  his  life, 

The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts, 

Which  terminated  all:  upon  a  tone, 

A  touch  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and  flow, 

And  his  cheek  change  tempestuously — his  heart  eo 

Unknowing  of  its  cause  of  agony. 

But  she  in  these  fond  feelings  had  no  share: 

Her  sighs  were  not  for  him;  to  her  he  was 

Even  as  a  brother — but  no  more;  'twas  much, 

For  brotherless  she  was,  save  in  the  name 

Her  infant  friendship  had  bestow'd  on  him; 

Herself  the  solitary  scion  left 

Of  a  time-honour'd  race. — It  was  a  name 

Which  pleased  him,  and  yet  pleased  him  not — and  why? 

Time  taught  him  a  deep  answer — when  she  loved  TO 

Another;  even  now  she  loved  another, 

And  on  the  summit  of  that  hill  she  stood 

Looking  afar  if  yet  her  lover's  steed 

Kept  pace  with  her  expectancy,  and  flew. 


in. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

There  was  an  ancient  mansion,  and  before 

Its  walls  there  was  a  steed  caparison'd: 

Within  an  antique  Oratory  stood 

The  Boy  of  whom  T  spake: — he  was  alone, 

And  pale,  and  pacing  to  and  fro :  anon  so 


204  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

He  sate  him  down,  and  seized  a  pen,  and  traced 

Words  which  I  could  not  guess  of;  then  he  lean'd 

His  bow'd  head  on  his  hands,  and  shook  as  'twere 

With  a  convulsion — then  arose  again, 

And  with  his  teeth  and  quivering  hands  did  tear 

What  he  had  written,  hut  he  shed  no  tears. 

And  he  did  calm  himself,  and  fix  his  brow 

Into  a  kind  of  quiet:   as  he  paused, 

The  Lady  of  his  love  re-enter'd  there; 

She  was  serene  and  smiling  then,  and  yet  so 

She  knew  she  was  by  him  beloved, — she  knew, 

For  quickly  comes  such  knowledge,  that  his  heart 

Was  darkeii'd  with  her  shadow,  and  she  saw 

That  he  was  wretched,  but  she  saw  not  all. 

He  rose,  and  with  a  cold  and  gentle  grasp 

He  took  her  hand;  a  moment  o'er  his  face 

A  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 

Was  traced,  and  then  it  faded,  as  it  came; 

He  dropp'd  the  hand  he  held,  and  with  slow  steps 

Retired,  but  not  as  bidding  her  adieu,  100 

For  they  did  part  with  mutual  smiles;  he  pass'd 

From  out  the  massy  gate  of  that  old  Hall, 

And  mounting  on  his  steed  he  went  his  way; 

And  ne'er  repass'd  that  hoary  threshold  more. 

IV. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

The  P>oy  was  sprung  to  manhood:  in  the  wilds 

Of  fiery  climes  he  made  himself  a  home. 

And  his  soul  drank  their  sunbeams:   he  was  girt 

With  strange  and  dusky  aspects;  he  was  not 

Himself  like  what  he  had  been;  on  the  sea  no 

And  on  the  shore  lie  was  a  wanderer; 

There  was  a  mass  of  many  images 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BY11O1S  205 

Crowded  like  waves  upon  me,  but  he  was 

A  part  of  all;  and  in  the  last  he  lay 

deposing  from  the  noontide  sultriness, 

Couch'd  among  fallen  columns,  in  the  shade 

Of  ruin'd  walls  that  had  survived  the  names 

Of  those  who  rear'd  them;  by  his  sleeping  side 

Stood  camels  grazing,  and  some  goodly  steeds 

Were  fasten'd  near  a  fountain;  and  a  man  120 

Clad  in  a  flowing  garb  did  watch  the  while, 

While  many  of  his  tribe  slumber'd  around: 

And  they  were  canopied  by  the  blue  sky, 

So  cloudless,  clear,  and  purely  beautiful, 

That  God  alone  was  to  be  seen  in  Heaven. 


v. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

The  Lady  of  his  love  was  wed  with  One 

Who  did  not  love  her  better: — in  her  home, 

A  thousand  leagues  from  his, — her  native  home, 

She  dwelt,  begirt  with  growing  Infancy,  130 

Daughters  and  sons  of  Beauty, — but  behold! 

Upon  her  face  there  was  the  tint  of  grief, 

The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife, 

And  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye, 

As  if  its  lid  were  charged  with  unshed  tears. 

What  could  her  grief  be? — she  had  all  she  loved, 

And  he  who  had  so  loved  her  was  not  there 

To  trouble  with  bad  hopes,  or  evil  wish. 

Or  ill-repress'd  affliction,  her  pure  thoughts. 

What  could  her  grief  be? — she  had  loved  him  not,         wo 

Xor  given  him  cause  to  deem  himself  beloved, 

Xor  could  he  be  a  part  of  that  which  prey'd 

Upon  her  mind — a  spectre  of  the  past. 


206  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

VI. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

The  Wanderer  was  return'd. — i  saw  him  stand 

Before  an  Altar — with  a  gentle  bride; 

Her  face  was  fair,  but  was  not  that  which  made 

The  Starlight  of  his  Boyhood; — as  he  stood 

Even  at  the  altar,  o'er  his  brow  there  came 

The  selfsame  aspect,  and  the  quivering  shock  iso 

That  in  the  antique  Oratory  shook 

His  bosom  in  its  solitude;  and  then — 

As  in  that  hour — a  moment  o'er  his  face 

The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 

Was  traced — and  then  it  faded  as  it  came, 

And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet,  and  lie  spoke 

The  fitting  vows,  but  heard  not  his  own  words, 

And  all  things  reel'd  around  him;  he  could  see 

Not  that  which  was,  nor  that  which  should  have  been — 

But  the  old  mansion,  and  the  accustom'd  hall,  100 

And  the  remember'd  chambers,  and  the  place, 

The  day,  the  hour,  the  sunshine,  and  the  shade, 

All  things  pertaining  to  that  place  and  hour, 

And  her  who  was  his  destiny,  came  back 

And  thrust  themselves  between  him  and  the  light: 

What  business  had  they  there  at  such  a  time? 

VTT. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Lady  of  his  love; — Oh!    she  was  changed,1 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul;  her  mind 
Had  wander'd  from  its  dwelling,  and  her  eyes  ITO 

They  had  not  their  own  lnsl  re,  but  the  look 
Which  is  not  of  the  earth;  she  was  become 


1  Mips  Chaworth  was  not  happy  in  her  marriairn  with  Mr.  Muster*,  aud  her  mind 
gave  way.    She  and  her  husband  were  separated. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON  207 

The  queen  of  a  fantastic  realm;  her  thoughts 

Were  combinations  of  disjointed  tilings; 

And  forms  impalpable  and  unperceived 

Of  others'  sight  familiar  were  to  hers. 

And  this  the  world  calls  frenzy;  but  the  wise 

Have  a  far  deeper  madness,  and  the  glance 

Of  melancholy  is  a  fearful  gift; 

What  is  it  but  the  telescope  of  truth?  so 

Which  strips  the  distance  of  its  phantasies, 

And  brings  life  near  in  utter  nakedness, 

Making  the  cold  reality  too  real! 

VIII. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

The  Wanderer  was  alone  as  heretofore, 

The  beings  which  surrounded  him  were  gone, 

Or  were  at  war  with  him;  he  was  a  mark 

For  blight  and  desolation,  compass'd  round 

With  Hatred  and  Contention;  Pain  was  mix'd 

In  all  which  was  served  up  to  him,  until,  190 

Like  to  the  Pontic  monarch  of  old  days, 

He  fed  on  poisons,  and  they  had  no  power, 

But  were  a  kind  of  nutriment;  he  lived 

Through  that  which  had  been  death  to  many  men. 

And  made  him  friends  of  mountains:  with  the  stars 

And  the  quick  Spirit  of  the  Universe 

He  held  his  dialogues!  and  they  did  teach 

To  him  the  magic  of  their  mysteries; 

To  him  the  book  of  Xight  was  open'd  wide, 

And  voices  from  the  deep  abyss  revcal'd  200 

A  marvel  and  a  secret — Be  it  so. 

IX. 

My  dream  was  past;  it  had  no  further  change. 
It  was  of  a  strange  order,  that  the  doom 


208  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

Of  these  two  creatures  should  be  thus  traced  out 

Almost  like  a  reality — the  one 

To  end  in  madness — both  in  misery. 

Diodati,  July,  18 1C.] 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE.1 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea; 
But,  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 

Here's  a  double  health  to  thee! 

Here's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me, 
And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate; 

And,  whatever  sky's  above  me, 
Here's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 
Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on; 

Though  a  desert  should  surround  me, 
It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

"Were't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 
As  I  gasp'd  upon  the  brink, 

Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

'Tis  to  thee  that  T  would  drink. 

With  that  water,  as  this  wine. 

The  libation  T  would  pour 
Should  be — peace  with  thine  and  mine, 

And  a  health  io  thee.  Tom  Moore.2 


1  Ryron'H  poetry  i*  full  of  bin  admiration  and  affection  for  Moore. 
3  Thin  should  have  been  written  fifteen  moons  ago  :  the  first  stanza  was. — "Lord 
Byron  to  Moore,"  July  10,  181T. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON  209 


CHILDE  HAROLD. 

CANTO   THE   THIRD.1 
(WATERLOO.) 

XXI. 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell; 
But  hush!  hark!  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  knell! 


Did  ye  not  hear  it? — No;  'twas  but  the  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street; 
On  with  the  dance!   let  joy  be  unconfined; 
ISTo  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet — 
But  hark! — that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before! 
Arm!  arm!  it  is — it  is — the  cannon's  opening  roar! 

1  Two  cantos  of  "  Childe  Harold  "  were  written  during  Byron's  first  travel?  through 
the  Mediterranean  countries.  The  last  two,  less  personal  and  less  morbid,  form  part 
of  the  harvest  of  the  years  1816-1817.  They  are  the  record  of  the  thoughts  which  rose 
in  Byron's  mind  in  connection  with  the  various  places  he  visited  as  he  travelled  or 
rested,  on  his  way  southward  from  England  ;  they  are  specially  remarkable  for  their 
brilliant  descriptions  and  for  the  strong  historic  sympathies  which  they  display. 

For  this  edition  it  has  been  deemed  best  to  consider  these  cantos  as  made  up  of 
separate  poems,  as  indeed  they  properly  are,  and  to  make  selections  from  among  the 
poems,  rather  than  to  insert  a  continuous  section  of  either  canto. 


210  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

XXIII. 

Within  a  windowed  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain;    he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival,, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic  car; 
And  when  they  smiled  hecause  he  deemed  it  near, 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretched  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier, 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  quell: 
He  rushed  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell. 

XXIV. 

Ah!  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated;  who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes. 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise! 

XXV. 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste:   the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war: 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar: 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
"Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star; 
While  thronged  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering,  with  white  lips — "The  foe!     They  come! 
they  come! " 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON  211 

XXVI. 

And  wild  and  high  the  "  Cameron's  gathering  "  rose! 
The  war-note  of  Lochicl,  which  Albyn's  hills 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes: — 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills, 
Savage  and  shrill!    But  with  the  breath  which  fills 
Their  mountain-pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 
The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years, 
And  Evan's,  Donald's  fame  rings  in  each  clansman's  ears! 


XXVII. 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  Nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave, — alas! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valour,  rolling  on  the  foe 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and  low, 


XXVIII. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 
Tbe  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms, — the  day 
Battle's  magnificently  stern  array! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent 
The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heaped  and  pent, 
Rider  and  horse, — friend,  foe, — in  one  red  burial  blent! 


212  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

(DRACHENFELS.) 
1. 

The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels 
Frowns  o'er  the  wide  and  winding  Rhine, 
Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 
Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine, 
And  hills  all  rich  with  blossomed  trees, 
And  fields  which  promise  corn  and  wine, 
And  scattered  cities  crowning  these, 
Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine, 
Have  strew'd  a  scene,  which  I  should  see 
With  double  joy  wert  thou*  with  me. 

2. 

And  peasant  girls,  with  deep  blue  eyes, 
And  hands  which  offer  early  flowers, 
Walk  smiling  o'er  this  paradise; 
Above,  the  frequent  feudal  towers 
Through  green  leaves  lift  their  walls  of  grey, 
And  many  a  rock  which  steeply  lowers, 
And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay, 
Look  o'er  this  vale  of  vintage  bowers; 
But  one  thing  want  these  banks  of  Rhine, — 
Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  mine! 

3. 

T  send  the  lilies  given  to  me; 
Though  long  before  Ihy  hand  they  touch, 
T  know  thai  they  must  wither'd  be, 
But  yet  reject  them  not  as  such; 

1  Byron's  ulster. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON  213 

For  I  have  cherish'd  them  as  dear, 
Because  they  yet  may  meet  thine  eye, 
And  guide  thy  soul  to  mine  even  here, 
When  thou  behold'st  them  drooping  nigh, 
And  know'st  them  gather'd  by  the  Khiue, 
And  offer'd  from  my  heart  to  thine! 


4. 

The  river  nobly  foams  and  flows, 

The  charm  of  this  enchanted  ground, 

And  all  its  thousand  turns  disclose 

Some  fresher  beauty  varying  round: 

The  haughtiest  breast  its  wish  might  bound 

Through  life  to  dwell  delighted  here; 

Nor  could  on  earth  a  spot  be  found 

To  Nature  and  to  me  so  dear, 

Could  thy  dear  eyes  in  following  mine 

Still  sweeten  more  these  banks  of  Rhine! 


(LAKE  GENEVA.) 
LXXXV. 

Clear,  placid  Leman!   thy  contrasted  lake, 
With  the  wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction:  once  I  loved 
Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  Sister's  voice  reproved. 
That  I  with  stern  delights  should  e'er  have  been  so 
moved. 


214  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

LXXXVI. 

It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
Mellowed  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen, 
Save  darken'd  Jura,  whose  capt  heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep;  and  drawing  near, 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore, 
Of  ilowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood;   on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar, 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more; 

LXXXVII. 

He  is  an  evening  reveller,  who  makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill, 
But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil, 
Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues. 

LXXXVITI. 

Ye  stars!  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven! 
If. in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the  fate 
Of  men  and  empire's, — 'tis  to  be  forgiven, 
That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great. 
Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal  state, 
And  claim  a  kindred  with  you;   for  ye  are 
A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create 
Tn  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar. 
That  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named  themselves  a 
star. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON  215 

LXXXIX. 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still — though  not  in  sleep, 
But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most; 
And  silent,  as  we  stand  in  thoughts  too  deep: — 
All  heaven  and  earth  are  still:  From  the  high  host 
Of  stars,  to  the  lull'd  lake  and  mountain-coast, 
All  is  concenter'd  in  a  life  intense, 
AVhere  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost, 
But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  defence. 


xc. 

Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so  felt 
In  solitude,  where  we  arc  least  alone; 
A  truth,  which  through  our  being  then  doth  melt, 
And  purifies  from  self:   it  is  a  tone, 
The  soul  and  source  of  music,  which  makes  known 
Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a  charm, 
Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea's  zone, 
Binding  all  things  with  beauty; — 'twould  disarm 
The  spectre  Death,  had  he  substantial  power  to  harm. 


xci. 

Not  vainly  did  the  early  Persian  make 
His  altar  the  high  places  and  the  peak 
'Of  earth-o'ergazing  mountains,  and  thus  take 
A  fit  and  unwalled  temple,  there  to  seek 
The  Spirit,  in  whose  honour  shrines  are  weak, 
"Tprcarcrl  of  human  hands.    Come,  and  compare 
Columns  and  idol-dwellings,  Ciotli  or  Greek, 
With  Nature's  realms  of  worship,  earth  and  air, 
Xor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circumscribe  thy  pray'r! 


216  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

XCII. 

The  sky  is  changed! — and  such  a  change!    Oh  night, 
And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman!    Far  along, 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder!    Not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue, 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud! 

XCIII. 

And  this  is  in  the  night: — Most  glorious  night! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber!  let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight, — 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee! 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea, 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth! 
And  now  again  'tis  black, — and  now,  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth, 
As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth. 

xciv. 

Now,  where  the  swift  Rhone  cleaves  his  way  between 
Heights  which  appear  as  lovers  who  have  parted 
Tn  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  intervene, 
That  they  can  meet  no  more,  though  broken-hearted; 
Though  in  their  souls,  which  thus  each  other  thwarted, 
Love  was  the  very  root  of  the  fond  rage 
Which  blighted  their  life's  bloom,  and  then  departed: — 
Itself  expired,  but  leaving  them  an  age 
Of  years  all  winters, — war  within  themselves  to  wage. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON  217 

XCV. 

Now,  where  the  quick  Rhone  thus  hath  cleft  his  way, 
The  mightiest  of  the  storms  hath  ta'en  his  stand; 
For  here,  not  one,  but  many,  make  their  play, 
And  iling  their  thunderbolts  from  hand  to  hand, 
Flashing  and  cast  around:  of  all  the  band, 
The  brightest  through  these  parted  hills  hath  fork'd 
His  lightnings, — as  if  he  did  understand, 
That  in  such  gaps  as  desolation  work'd, 
There  the  hot  shaft  should  blast  whatever  therein  lurk'd. 

xcvi. 

Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings!   ye! 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful;  the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices,  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless, — if  I  rest. 
But  where  of  ye,  0  tempests!  is  the  goal? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast? 
Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest? 


CANTO   THE    FOURTH. 

(VENICE.) 

I. 

I  stood  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs; 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand: 
I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures  rise 
As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter's  wand: 
A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  expand 
Around  me,  and  a  dying  Glory  smiles 


218  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

O'er  the  far  times,  when  many  a  subject  land 
Look'd  to  the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles, 
Where  Venice  sate  in  state,  throned  on  her  hundred  isles! 

II. 

She  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean, 
Hising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers 
At  airy  distance,  with  majestic  motion, 
A  ruler  of  the  waters  and  their  powers: 
And  such  she  was; — her  daughters  had  their  dowers 
From  spoils  of  nations,  and  the  exhaustless  East 
Pourd  in  her  lap  all  gems  in  sparkling  showers. 
In  purple  was  she  rolled,  and  of  her  feast 
Monarchs  partook,  and  dec-m'd  their  dignity  increased. 

in. 

In  Venice,  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more,1 
And  silent  rows  the  songlcss  gondolier; 
Her  palaces  are  crumbling  to  the  shore, 
And  music  meets  not  always  now  the  ear: 
Those  days  are  gone — but  Beauty  still  is  here. 
States  fall,  arts  fade — but  Nature  doth  not  die, 
Nor  yet  forget  how  Venice  once  was  dear. 
The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity, 
The  revel  of  the  earth,  the  masque  of  Italy! 

IV. 

But  unto  us  she  hath  a  spell  beyond 

Her  name  in  story,  and  her  long  array 

Of  mighty  shadows,  whose  dim  forms  despond 

Above  the  dogeless  cily's  vanish'd  sway; 

1  The  Gondoliers  used  formerly  to  sin<_r  n  Venetian  version  of  Tasso's  "  Gerusalein- 
me  LibcTHtu,"  answering  each  other  in  alternate  stan/as,  sometimes  from  a  long 
distance. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON  219 

Ours  is  a  trophy  which  will  not  decay 
With  the  Kialto;  Shylock  and  the  Moor, 
And  Pierre,1  cannot  be  swept  or  worn  away — 
The  keystones  of  the  arch!  though  all  were  o'er, 
For  us  repeopled  were  the  solitary  shore. 


XI. 

The  spouseless  Adriatic  mourns  her  lord; 
And,  annual  marriage  now  no  more  renewil, 
The  Buccntaur  lies  rotting  unrestored, 
Neglected  garment  of  her  widowhood! 
St.  Mark  yet  sees  his  lion  where  he  stood 
Stand,  but  in  mockery  of  his  wither'd  power, 
Over  the  proud  Place  where  an  Emperor  sued, 
And  monarchs  gazed  and  envied  in  the  hour 
When  Venice  was  a  queen  with  an  unequall'd  dower. 

XII. 

The  Suabian  2  sued,  and  now  the  Austrian  reigns — 
An  Emperor  tramples  where  an  Emperor  knelt; 
Kingdoms  are  shrunk  to  provinces,  and  chains 
Clank  over  sceptred  cities;  nations  melt 
From  power's  high  pinnacle,  when  they  have  felt 
The  sunshine  for  a  while,  and  downward  go 
Like  lauwine  loosen'd  from  the  mountain's  belt; 
Oh  for  one  hour  of  blind  old  Dondolo! 
Th'  octogenarian  chief,  Byzantium's  conquering  foe. 

XIII. 

Before  St.  Mark  still  glow  his  steeds  of  brass, 
Their  gilded  collars  glittering  in  the  sun; 

1  The  hero  of  Otway's  traecdy,  "  Venice  Preserved."    In  Byron'p  time  the  charac- 
ter was  a  favorite  on  the  stage.  »  Frederic  Barbarossa. 


220  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

But  is  not  Doria's  menace  come  to  pass? 
Are  they  not  bridled? — A'cnice,  lost  and  won, 
Her  thirteen  hundred  years  of  freedom  done, 
Sinks,  like  a  seaweed,  into  whence  she  rose! 
Better  be  whelm'd  beneath  the  waves,  and  shun, 
Even  in  destruction's  depth,  her  foreign  foes, 
From  whom  submission  wrings  an  infamous  repose.1 


XIV. 

In  youth  she  was  all  glory, — a  new  Tyre; 
Her  very  byword  sprung  from  victory, 
The  "  Planter  of  the  Lion,"'  which  through  lire 
And  blood  she  bore  o'er  subject  earth  and  sea; 
Though  making  many  slaves,  herself  still  free, 
And  Europe's  bulwark  'gainst  the  Ottomite; 
Witness  Troy's  rival,  C'andia!    Vouch  it,  ye 
Immortal  waves  that  saw  Lepanto's  fight! 
For  ye  are  names  no  time  nor  tyranny  can  blight. 


Statues  of  glass — all  shiver' d — the  long  file 
Of  her  dead  Doges  are  declined  to  dust; 
Hut  where  they  dwelt,  the  vast  and  sumptuous  pile 
Bespeaks  the  pageant  of  their  splendid  trust; 
Their  sceptre  broken,  and  their  sword  in  rust, 
Have  yielded  to  the  stranger:   empty  halls, 
Thin  streets,  and  foreign  aspects,  such  as  must 
Too  oft  remind  her  who  and  what  enthrals. 
Have  flung  a  desolate  cloud  o'er  Venice'  lovely  walls. 


1  The  enforced  subjection  of  Venice  to  Austria  from  1797-1866  was  the  theme  of 
mourning  or  indignation  for  many  a  poet. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON  221 

XVI. 

When  Athens'  armies  fell  at  Syracuse, 
And  fetter'd  thousands  bore  the  yoke  of  war, 
Redemption  rose  up  in  the  Attic  Muse, 
Her  voice  their  only  ransom  from  afar: 
See!  as  they  chant  the  tragic  hymn,  the  car 
Of  the  o'ermaster'd  victor  stops,  the  reins 
Fall  from  his  hands — his  idle  scimitar 
Starts  from  its  belt — he  rends  his  captive's  chains, 
And  bids  him  thank  the  bard  for  freedom  and  his  strains. 

XVII. 

Thus,  Venice,  if  no  stronger  claim  were  thine, 
Were  all  thy  proud  historic  deeds  forgot, 
Thy  choral  memory  of  the  Bard  divine, 
Thy  love  of  Tasso,  should  have  cut  the  knot 
Which  tics  thee  to  thy  tyrants;  and  thy  lot 
Is  shameful  to  the  nations, — most  of  all, 
Albion!  to  thee:  the  Ocean  queen  should  not 
Abandon  Ocean's  children;  in  the  fall 
Of  Venice  think  of  thine,  despite  thy  watery  wall. 

XVIII. 

I  loved  her  from  my  boyhood;  she  to  me 
Was  as  a  fairy  city  of  the  heart, 
Rising  like  water-columns  from  the  sea, 
Of  joy  the  sojourn,  and  of  wealth  the  mart; 
And  Otway,  Eadcliffe,  Schiller,  Shakspeare's  art, 
Had  stamp'd  her  image  in  me,  and  even  so, 
Although  I  found  her  thus,  we  did  not  part, 
Perchance  even  dearer  in  her  day  of  woe, 
Than  when  she  was  a  boast,  a  marvel,  and  a  show. 


222  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

(SUNSET  IN  TUB  KH.ETIAN  ALPS.) 
XXVII. 

The  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night — 
Sunset  divides  the  sky  with  her — a  sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  Alpine  height 
Of  blue  Frhili's  mountains;  Heaven  is  free 
From  clouds,  but  of  all  colours  seems  to  be, — 
Melted  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  West, — 
Where  the  Day  joins  the  past  Eternity; 
While,  on  the  other  hand,  meek  Dian's  crest 
Floats  through  the  azure  air — an  island  of  the  blest! 

XXVIII. 

A  single  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 
With  her  o'er  half  the  lovely  heaven;  but  still 
Yon  sunny  sea  heaves  brightly,  and  remains 
Ifoll'd  o'er  the  peak  of  the  far  Ehajtian  hill, 
As  Day  and  Xight  contending  were,  until 
Nature  redaim'd  her  order: — gently  flows 
The  deep-dyed  Brenta,  where  their  lines  instil 
The  odorous  purple  of  a  new-born  rose, 
Which  streams  upon  her  stream,  and  glass'd  within  it 
glows, 

XXTX. 

FillYl  with  the  face  of  heaven,  which,  from  afar, 
Tomes  down  upon  the  waters;  ;ill  its  lines, 
From  the  rich  sunset  to  the  rising  star, 
Their  magical  variety  diffuse: 
And  now  they  change;   a  paler  shadow  strews 
Its  mantle  o'er  the  mountains;  parting  day 
Dies  like  the  dolphin,  whom  each  pang  imbues 
With  a  new  colour  as  it  gasps  away, 
The  last  still  loveliest,  till — 'tis  gone — and  all  is  gray. 


SELECTIONS  PROM  BYRON  223 

(ARQUA.) 


There  .is  a  tomb  in  Arqua;— rear'tl  in  air, 
Pi  Hard  in  their  sarcophagus,  repose 
The  bones  of  Laura's  lover:    here  repair 
Many  familiar  with  his  well-sung  woes, 
The  pilgrims  of  his  genius.    He  arose 
To  raise  a  language,  and  his  land  reclaim 
From  the  dull  yoke  of  her  barbaric  foes: 
Watering  the  tree  which  bears  his  lady's  name 
With  his  melodious  tears,  he  gave  himself  to  fame. 

XXXI. 

They  keep  his  dust  in  Arqua,  where  he  died; 
The  mountain-village  where  his  latter  days 
Went  down  the  vale  of  years;  and  'tis  their  pride- 
An  honest  pride — and  let  it  be  their  praise, 
To  offer  to  the  passing  stranger's  gaze 
His  mansion  and  his  sepulchre;  both  plain 
And  venerably  simple,  such  as  raise 
A  feeling  more  accordant  with  his  strain 
Than  if  a  pyramid  form'd  his  monumental  fane. 

XXXII. 

And  the  soft  quiet  hamlet  where  he  dwelt 
Is  one  of  that  complexion  which  seems  made 
For  those  who  their  mortality  have  felt, 
And  sought  a  refuge  from  their  hopes  decay'd 
In  the  deep  umbrage  of  a  green  hill's  shade, 
Which  shows  a  distant  prospect  far  away 
Of  busy  cities,  now  in  vain  displayed, 
For  they  can  lure  no  further;  and  the  ray 
Of  a  bright  sun  can  make  sufficient  holiday, 


224  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

XXXIII. 

Developing  the  mountains,  leaves,  and  flowers, 
And  shining  in  the  brawling  brook,  where-by, 
Clear  as  its  current,  glide  the  sauntering  hours 
With  a  calm  languor,  which,  though  to  the  eye 
Idlesse  it  seem,  hath  its  morali'y. 
]f  from  society  we  learn  to  live, 
'Tis  solitude  should  teach  us  how  to  die; 
It  hath  no  flatterers;  vanity  can  give 
No  hollow  aid;  alone — man  with  his  God  must  strive, 

(ITALY.) 

XLII. 

Italia!    Oh  Italia!  thou  who  hast 
The  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  which  became 
A  funeral  dower  of  present  woes  and  past, 
On  thy  sweet  brow  is  sorrow  plough'd  by  shame, 
And  annals  graved  in  characters  of  flame. 
Oh,  God!  that  thou  wert  in  thy  nakedness 
Less  lovely  or  more  powerful,  and  couldst  claim 
Thy  right,  and  awe  the  robbers  back,  who  press 
To  shed  thy  blood,  and  drink  the  tears  of  thy  distress; 

XLIII. 

Then  might'st  thou  more  appal;  or,  less  desired, 
lie  homely  and  be  peaceful,  undeplored 
For  thy  destructive  charms;   then,  still  untired, 
Would  not  be  seen  the  armed  torrents  pour'd 
Down  the  dee])  Alps;  nor  would  the  hostile  horde 
Of  many-nationed  spoilers  from  the  TY> 
Quaff  blood  and  water;   nor  the  stranger's  sword 
Be  thy  sad  weapon  of  defence,  and  so, 
Victor  or  vanquished,  thou  the  slave  of  friend  or  foe. 


SELECTIONS  PROM  BYRON  225 

(SANTA  CROCE.) 
LIV. 

In  Santa  Croce's  holy  precincts  lie 
Ashes  which  make  it  holier,  dust  which  is 
Even  in  itself  an  immortality, 
Though  there  were  nothing  save  the  past,  and  this, 
The  particle  of  those  sublimities 
Which  have  relapsed  to  chaos: — here  repose 
Angelo's,  Alfieri's  bones,  and  his, 
The  starry  Galileo,  with  his  woes; 
Here  Machiavelli's  earth  return'd  to  whence  it  rose. 

LV. 

These  are  four  minds,  which,  like  the  elements, 
Might  furnish  forth  creation: — Italy! 
Time,  which  hath  wrong'd  thee  with  ten  thousand  rents 
Of  thine  imperial  garment,  shall  deny, 
And  hath  denied,  to  every  other  sky, 
Spirits  which  soar  from  ruin: — thy  decay 
Is  still  impregnate  with  divinity, 
Which  gilds  it  with  revivifying  ray; 
Such  as  the  great  of  yore,  Canova  is  to-day. 

LVI. 

But  where  repose  the  all  Etruscan  three — 
Dante,  and  Petrarch,  and,  scarce  less  than  they, 
The  P>ard  of  Prose,  creative  spirit!  he 
Of  the  Hundred  Tales  of  love — where  did  they  lay 
Their  bones,  distinguished  from  our  common  clay 
In  death  as  life?    Are  they  resolved  to  dust, 
And  have  their  country's  marbles  nought  to  say? 
Could  not  her  quarries  furnish  forth  one  bust? 
Did  they  not  to  her  breast  their  filial  earth  entrust  ? 


226  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

LVII. 

Ungrateful  Florence!    Dante  sleeps  afar, 
Like  Scipio,  buried  by  the  upbraiding  shore: 
Thy  factions,  in  their  worse  than  civil  war, 
Proscribed  the  bard  whose  name  for  evermore 
Their  children's  children  would  in  vain  adore 
With  the  remorse  of  ages;  and  the  crown 
Which  Petrarch's  laureate  brow  supremely  wore, 
Upon  a  far  and  foreign  soil  had  grown, 
His  life,  his  fame,  his  grave,  though  rifled — not  thine  own. 

LVIII. 

Boccaccio  to  his  parent  earth  bequeath'd 
His  dust, — and  lies  it  not  her  Great  among, 
With  many  a  sweet  and  solemn  requiem  breathed 
O'er  him  who  form'd  the  Tuscan's  siren  tongue? 
That  music  in  itself,  whose  sounds  are  song, 
The  poetry  of  speech?    Xo; — even  his  tomb 
Uptorn,  must  bear  the  hyama  bigot's  wrong, 
Xo  more  amidst  the  meaner  dead  find  room, 
Nor  claim  a  passing  sigh,  because  it  told  for  whom! 


LIX. 

And  Santa  Croce  wants  their  mighty  dust; 
Yet  for  this  want  more  noted,  as  of  yore 
The  Cesar's  pageant,  shorn  of  Bruhis'  bust, 
Did  but  of  Koine's  best  Son  remind  her  more: 
Happier  l?avenna!  on  thy  hoary  shore, 
Fortress  of  falling  empire!  honour'd  sleeps 
The  immortal  exile; — Arqua,  too,  her  store 
Of  tuneful  relics  proudly  claims  and  keeps. 
While  Florence  vainly  begs  her  banish'd  dead  and  weeps. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON  227 

LX. 

What  is  her  pyramid  of  precious  stones? 
Of  porphyry,  jasper,  agate,  and  all  hues 
Of  gem  and  marble,  to  encrust  the  bones 
Of  merchant-dukes?  the  momentary  dews 
Which,  sparkling  to  the  twilight  stars,  infuse 
Freshness  in  the  green  turf  that  wraps  the  dead, 
Whose  names  are  mausoleums  of  the  Muse, 
Are  gently  prest  with  far  more  reverent  tread 
Than  ever  paced  the  slab  which  paves  the  princely  head. 

(VELINO.) 

LXIX. 

The  roar  of  waters! — from  the  headlong  height 
Velino  cleaves  the  wave-worn  precipice; 
The  fall  of  waters!  rapid  as  the  light 
The  flashing  mass  foams  shaking  the  abyss; 
The  hell  of  waters!  where  they  howl  and  hiss, 
And  boil  in  endless  torture;  while  the  sweat 
Of  their  great  agony,  wrung  out  from  this 
Their  Phlegethon,  curls  round  the  rocks  of  jet 
That  gird  the  gulf  around,  in  pitiless  horror  set, 

LXX. 

And  mounts  in  spray  the  skies,  and  thence  again 
Returns  in  an  unceasing  shower,  which  round, 
With  its  uncmptied  cloud  of  gentle  rain, 
Is  an  eternal  April  to  the  ground, 
Making  it  all  one  emerald: — how  profound 
The  gulf!  and  how  the  giant  element 
From  rock  to  rock  leaps  with  delirious  bound. 
Crushing  the  cliffs,  which,  downward  worn  and  rent 
With  his  fierce  footsteps,  yield  in  chasms  a  fearful  vent 


228  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

LXXI. 

To  the  broad  column  which  rolls  on,  and  shows 
More  like  the  fountain  of  an  infant  sea 
Torn  from  the  womb  of  mountains  by  the  throes 
Of  a  new  world,  than  only  thus  to  be 
Parent  of  rivers,  which  flow  gushingly, 
With  many  windings,  through  the  vale: — Look  back! 
Lo!  where  it  comes  like  an  eternity, 
As  if  to  sweep  down  all  things  in  its  track, 
Charming  the  eye  with  dread, — a  matchless  cataract, 

LXXII. 

Horribly  beautiful!  but  on  the  verge, 
From  side  to  side,  beneath  the  glittering  morn, 
An  Iris  sits,  amidst  the  infernal  surge, 
Like  Hope  upon  a  deathbed,  and,  unworn 
Its  steady  dyes,  while  all  around  is  torn 
By  the  distracted  waters,  bears  serene 
Its  brilliant  hues  with  all  their  beams  unshorn: 
Resembling,  mid  the  torture  of  the  scene, 
Love  watching  Madness  with  unalterable  mien. 


(ROME.) 

LXXVIII. 

Oh  TJome!  J  my  country!  city  of  the  soul! 

The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  tlice, 

Lone  mother  of  dead  empires!   and  control 

In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 

What  arc  our  woes  and  sufferance?    Come  and  see 


1  "  I  have  been  some  days  in  Rome  the  Wonderful.  I  am  delighted  with  Rome. 
As  a  whole— ancient  and  modern,  it  heats  Greece,  Constantinople,  everything  at 
least  that  I  have  ever  seen."— "Byron  Letter*,"  May,  1817. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON  229 

The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  Ye! 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 

LXXIX. 

The  Niobe  of  nations!  there  she  stands, 
Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  woe; 
An  empty  urn  within  her  wither'd  hands, 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scatter'd  long  ago; 
The  Scipios'  tomb  1  contains  no  ashes  now; 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers:  dost  thou  flow, 
Old  Tiber!   through  a  marble  wilderness? 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her  distress! 

LXXX. 

The  Goth,  the  Christian,  Time,  War,  Flood,  and  Fire, 
Have  dealt  upon  the  seven-hilled  city's  pride; 
She  saw  her  glories  star  by  star  expire, 
And  up  the  steep  barbarian  monarchs  ride, 
Where  the  car  climb'd  the  capitol;  far  and  wide 
Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left  a  site: — 
Chaos  of  ruins!  who  shall  trace  the  void, 
O'er  the  dim  fragments  cast  a  lunar  light, 
And  say,  "  here  was,  or  is,"  where  all  is  doubly  night? 

LXXXI. 

The  double  night  of  ages,  and  of  her. 

Night's  daughter,  Ignorance,  hath  wrapt,  and  wrap 


1  For  the  references  in  Byron's  poetry  see  any  good  classical  dictionary  and  the 
encyclopaedia. 


230  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

All  round  us;  we  but  feel  our  way  to  err: 
The  ocean  hath  his  chart,  the  stars  their  map, 
And  Knowledge  spreads  them  on  her  ample  lap; 
But  Rome  is  as  the  desert,  where  we  steer 
Stumbling  o'er  recollections;  now  we  clap 
Our  hands,  and  cry,  "  Eureka!  "  it  is  clear — 
When  but  some  false  mirage  of  ruin  rises  near. 


LXXXII. 

Alas!  the  lofty  city!  and  alas! 
The  trebly  hundred  1  triumphs!  and  the  day 
When  Brutus  made  the  dagger's  edge  surpass 
The  conqueror's  sword  in  bearing  fame  away! 
Alas,  for  Tully's  voice,  and  Virgil's  lay, 
And  Livy's  pictured  page! — But  these  shall  be 
Her  resurrection;  all  beside — decay. 
Alas,  for  Earth,  for  never  shall  we  see 
That  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when  Rome  was  free! 


(THE  COLISEUM.) 
CXXVIII. 

Arches  on  arches!  as  it  were  that  Rome, 
Collecting  the  chief  trophies  of  her  line, 
Would  build  up  all  her  triumphs  in  one  dome, 
Her  Coliseum  stands;  the  moonbeams  shine 
As  'twere  its  natural  torches,  for  divine 
Should  be  the  light  which  streams  here,  to  illume 
This  long-explored  but  still  exhaustless  mine 
Of  contemplation;  and  the  azure  gloom 
Of  an  Italian  night,  where  the  deep  skies  assume 


1  It  is  ivrordfd  that  Konian  srenerals  "  triumphed  "  three  hundred  and  twenty  times 
in  honor  of  victories  over  foreign  nations. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 
CXXIX. 

Hues  which  have  words,  and  speak  to  ye  of  heaven, 
Floats  o'er  this  vast  and  wondrous  monument, 
And  shadows  forth  its  glory.    There  is  given 
Unto  the  things  of  earth,  which  Time  hath  hcnt, 
A  spirit's  feeling,  and  where  he  hath  leant 
His  hand,  hut  hroke  his  scythe,  there  is  a  power 
And  magic  in  the  ruin'd  battlement, 
For  which  the  palace  of  the  present  hour 
Must  yield  its  pomp,  and  wait  till  ages  are  its  dower. 


cxxxix. 

And  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran, 
In  murmur'd  pity,  or  loud-roarM  applause, 
As  man  was  slaughters!  by  his  fellow-man. 
And  wherefore  slaughtered?  wherefore,  but  because 
Such  were  the  bloody  Circus'  genial  laws, 
And  the  imperial  pleasure. — Wherefore  not? 
What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms — on  battle-plains  or  listed  spot? 
Both  are  but  theatres  where  the  chief  actors  rot. 

CXL. 

I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator1  lie: 

He  leans  upon  his  hand — his  manly  brow 

Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony. 

And  his  droop'd  head  sinks  gradually  low — 

And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 

From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 

Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower;  and  now 


1  Now  generally  known  as  the  Dyine  Gaul,  a  work  of  the  third  century  B.  c.    See 
Lubke'e  "  History  of  Sculpture,"  I.,  p.  244. 


232  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

The  arena  swims  around  him — he  is  gone, 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hail'd  the  wretch  who 
won. 

CXLI. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not — his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away; 
He  reck'd  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay, 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother — he,  their  sire, 
Butcher'd  to  make  a  Roman  holiday — 
All  this  rush'd  with  his  blood — Shall  he  expire 
And  unavenged? — Arise!  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire! 

CXLII. 

But  here,  where  Murder  breathed  her  bloody  steam; 
And  here,  where  buzzing  nations  choked  the  ways, 
And  roar'd  or  murmur'd  like  a  mountain  stream 
Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays; 
Here,  where  the  Roman  million's  blame  or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd,1 
My  voice  sounds  much — and  fall  the  stars'  faint  rays 
On  the  arena  void — scats  crushed — walls  bow'd — 
And  galleries,  where  my  steps  seem  echoes  strangely  loud. 

CXLIII. 

A  ruin — yet  what  ruin!  from  its  mass 

Walls,  palaces,  half-cities,  have  been  rear'd; 

Yet  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass 

And  marvel  where  the  spoil  could  have  appear'd. 


1  Perhaps  everyone  knows  that  a  Koman  audience  decided  the  fate  of  a  wounded 
gladiator,  by  turuin<*  their  thumbs  up  or  down.    Thumbs  down  meant  death. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON  233 

Hath  it  indeed  been  plunder'd,  or  but  clear'd  ? 
Alas!  developed,  opens  the  decay, 
When  the  colossal  fabric's  form  is  near'd: 
It  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day, 
AVliich  streams  too  much  on  all  years,  man,  have  reft 
away. 


CXLIV. 

But  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there; 
When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of  time, 
And  the  low  night-breeze  waves  along  the  air 
The  garland-forest,  which  the  gray  walls  wear, 
Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Caesar's  head; 
When  the  light  shines  serene  but  doth  not  glare, 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead: 
Heroes  have  trod  this  spot — 'tis  on  their  dust  ye  tread. 


CXLV. 

"  While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  stand; 

"  When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  fall; 

"  And  when  Rome  falls — the  World."     From  our  own 

land 

Thus  spake  the  pilgrims  o'er  this  mighty  wall 
In  Saxon  times,  which  we  are  wont  to  call 
Ancient;  and  these  three  mortal  things  are  still 
On  their  foundations,  and  unalter'd  all ; 
Rome  and  her  Ruin  past  Redemption's  skill, 
The  World,  the  same  wide  den — of  thieves,  or  what  ye 
will. 


234  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

(APOLLO  BELVIDERE.) 
CLXI. 

Or  view  the  Lord  of  the  unerring  bow, 
The  God  of  life,  and  poesy,  and  light — 
The  Sun  in  human  limbs  array'd,  and  brow 
All  radiant  from  his  triumph  in  the  fight; 
The  shaft  hath  just  been  shot — the  arrow  bright 
With  an  immortal's  vengeance;  in  his  eye 
And  nostril  beautiful  disdain,  and  might, 
And  majesty,  ilash  their  full  lightnings  by, 
Developing  in  that  one  glance  the  Deity. 

CLXII. 

But  in  his  delicate  form — a  dream  of  Love, 
Shaped  by  some  solitary  nymph,  whose  breast 
Long'd  for  a  deathless  lover  from  above, 
And  madden'd  in  that  vision — are  exprest 
All  that  ideal  beauty  ever  bless'd 
The  mind  within  its  most  unearthly  mood, 
When  each  conception  was  a  heavenly  guest — 
A  ray  of  immortality — and  stood, 
Starlike,  around,  until  they  gather'd  to  a  god! 

CLXIII. 

And  if  it  be  Prometheus  stole  from  Heaven 
The  fire  which  we  endure,  it  was  repaid 
By  him  to  whom  the  energy  was  given 
Which  this  poetic  marble  hath  array'd 
With  an  eternal  glory — which,  if  made 
By  human  hands,  is  not  of  human  thought; 
And  Time  himself  hath  hallow'd  it,  nor  laid 
One  ringlet  in  the  dust — nor  hath  it  caught 
A  tinge  of  years,  but  breathes  the  flame  with  which  'twas 
wrought. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON  235 

(DIRGE  FOR  THE  PRINCESS  CIIARLOTTE.) 
CLXVII. 

Hark!  forth  from  the  abyss  a  voice  proceeds,1 
A  long,  low  distant  murmur  of  dread  sound, 
Such  as  arises  when  a  nation  bleeds 
With  some  deep  and  immedicable  wound; 
Through  storm  and  darkness  yawns  the  rending  ground, 
The  gulf  is  thick  with  phantoms,  but  the  chief 
Seems  royal  still,  though  with  her  head  discrown'd, 
And  pale,  but  lovely,  with  maternal  grief 
She  clasps  a  babe,  to  whom  her  breast  yields  no  relief. 

CLXVIII. 

Scion  of  chiefs  and  monarchs,  where  art  thou? 
Fond  hope  of  many  nations,  art  thou  dead? 
Could  not  the  grave  forget  thee,  and  lay  low 
Some  less  majestic,  less  beloved  head? 
In  the  sad  midnight,  while  thy  heart  still  bled, 
The  mother  of  a  moment,  o'er  thy  boy, 
Death  hush'd  that  pang  for  ever:   with  thee  fled 
The  present  happiness  and  promised  joy 
Which  fill'd  the  imperial  isles  so  full  it  seem'd  to  cloy. 

CLXIX. 

Peasants  bring  forth  in  safety. — Can  it  be, 

Oh  thou  that  wert  so  happy,  so  adored! 

Those  who  weep  not  for  kings  shall  weep  for  thee, 

And  Freedom's  heart,  grown  heavy,  cease  to  hoard 

Her  many  griefs  for  ONE;  for  she  had  pour'd 


1  The  Princess  Charlotte  was  almost  the  only  member  of  the  royal  family  who 
was  beloved  by  the  nation,  and  her  early  death,  in  1817,  made  a  deep  impression  upon 
all  Englishmen, 


236  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

Her  orisons  for  thee,  and  o'er  thy  head 
Beheld  her  Iris. — Thou,  too,  lonely  lord,1 
And  desolate  consort — vainly  wert  thou  wed! 
The  husband  of  a  year!  the  father  of  the  dead! 


CLXX. 

Of  sackcloth  was  thy  wedding  garment  made; 
Thy  bridal's  fruit  is  ashes:  in  the  dust 
The  fair-hair'd  Daughter  of  the  Isles  is  laid, 
The  love  of  millions!    How  we  did  entrust 
Futurity  to  her!  and,  though  it  must 
Darken  above  our  bones,  yet  fondly  deem'd 
Our  children  should  obey  her  child,  and  bless'd 
Her  and  her  hoped-for  seed,  whose  promise  seem'd 
Like  stars  to  shepherd's  eyes: — 'twas  but  a  meteor  bcam'd. 

CLXXI. 

Woe  unto  us,  not  her;  for  she  sleeps  well: 
The  fickle  reek  of  popular  breath,  the  tongue 
Of  hollow  counsel,  the  false  oracle, 
Which  from  the  birth  of  monarchy  hath  rung 
Its  knell  in  princely  ears,  till  the  o'erstunj 
Nations  have  arm'd  in  madness,  the  strange  fate 
Which  tumbles  mightiest  sovereigns,  and  hath  flung 
Against  their  blind  omnipotence  a  weight 
Within  the  opposing  scale,  which  crushes  soon  or  late, — 

CLXXII. 

These  might  have  been  her  destiny;  but  no, 
Our  hearts  deny  it:  and  so  young,  so  fair, 


Leopold,  afterwards  King  of  Belgium. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON  237 

Good  without  effort,  great  without  a  foe; 
But  now  a  bride  and  mother — and  now  there! 
How  many  ties  did  that  stern  moment  tear! 
From  thy  Sire's  to  his  humblest  subject's  breast 
Is  link'd  the  electric  chain  of  that  despair, 
Whose  shock  was  as  an  earthquake's,  and  opprest 
The  land  which  loved  thee  so  that  none  could  love  thee  best. 


(THE  OCEAN.) 
CLXXV. 

But  I  forget. — My  Pilgrim's  shrine  is  von, 
And  he  and  I  must  part, — so  let  it  be, — 
His  task  and  mine  alike  are  nearly  done; 
Yet  once  more  let  us  look  upon  the  sea; 
The  midland  ocean  breaks  on  him  and  me, 
And  from  the  Alban  Mount  we  now  behold 
Our  friend  of  youth,  that  ocean,  which  when  we 
Beheld  it  last  by  Calpe's  rock  unfold 
Those  waves,  we  follow'd  on  till  the  dark  Euxine  roll'd 


CLXXVI. 

Upon  the  blue  Symplegades:  long  years — 
Long,  though  not  very  many,  since  have  done 
Their  work  on  both;  some  suffering  and  some  tears 
Have  left  us  nearly  where  we  had  begun: 
Yet  not  in  vain  our  mortal  race  hath  run, 
We  have  had  our  reward — and  it  is  here; 
That  we  can  yet  feel  gladden'd  by  the  sun, 
And  reap  from  earth,  sea,  joy  almost  as  dear 
As  if  there  were  no  man  to  trouble  what  is  clear. 


238  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

CLXXVII. 

Oh!  that  the  Desert  were  my  dwelling-place, 
With  one  fair  Spirit  for  my  minister, 
That  I  might  all  forget  the  human  race, 
And,  hating  no  one,  love  but  only  her! 
Ye  Elements! — in  whose  ennobling  stir 
I  feel  myself  exalted — Can  ye  not 
Accord  me  such  a  being?    Do  I  err 
In  deeming  such  inhabit  many  a  spot? 
Though  with  them  to  converse  can  rarely  be  our  lot. 

CLXXVIII. 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar: 
I  love  not  Man  the  less,  but  Nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

CLXXIX. 

T?oll  on,  tli on  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean — roll! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  tliee  in  vain; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore; — upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own. 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
TTe  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan. 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  uncoflm'd,  and  unknown. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON  239 

CLXXX. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths, — thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him, — thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 
Spurning  him  from  thy  hosom  to  the  skies, 
And  scnd'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth: — there  let  him  lay. 

CLXXXI. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war; 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 


CLXXXII. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they? 
Thy  waters  wash'd  them  power  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts: — not  ««  thou, 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play — 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 


240  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

CLXXXIII. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests;  in  all  time, 
Calm  or  convulsed — in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving; — boundless,  endless,  and  sublime — 
The  image  of  Eternity — the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 

CLXXXIV. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean! 1  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward:  from  a  boy 
I  wanton'd  with  thy  breakers — they  to  me 
Were  a  delight;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror — 'twas  a  pleasing  fear, 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane — as  I  do  here. 


1  From  hip  boyhood,  Byron  loved  the  grandeur  both  of  the  mountain?  and  of  the 
sea.  In  later  life  he  often  referred  to  the  impression  made  upon  him  at  the  age  of 
eight  by  the  Scotch  Highlands ;  and  his  intercourse  with  the  wild  solemnity  of  the 
northern  ocean  during  his  childhood  had  a  profound  influence  upon  his  whole  life. 
Cf.  "Childe  Harold,"  III.,  72-75.  "The  Island,"  XII.,  etc. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON  241 


THE  ISLES  OF  GREECE. 

1. 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, — 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

2. 

The  Scian  a  and  the  Teian  2  muse, 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse; 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 

To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 

Than  your  sires'  "  Islands  of  the  Blest." 

3. 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon — 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dream'd  that  Greece  might  still  be  free; 

For  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

4. 

A  king  sat  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 
And  men  in  nations; — all  were  his! 

1  Homer.  *  Anacreon. 


242  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day — 
And  when  the  sun  set  where  were  they? 

5. 

And  where  are  they?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country?    On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now— 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine? 

G. 

'Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  link'd  among  a  fetter d  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here? 

For  Greeks  a  blush — for  Greece  a  tear. 

7. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest? 

Must  we  but  blush? — Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth!   render  back  from  out  thy  breast 
A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae! 


What,  silent  still?  and  silent  all? 

Ah!   no; — the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  "  Let  one  living  head, 
But  one  arise, — we  come,  we  come!  " 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  arc  dumb. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON  243 

9. 

In  vain — in  vain:  strike  other  chords; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine! 
Hark!  rising  to  the  ignoble  call — 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal! 


10. 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet, 
Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave? 

11. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these! 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine: 

He  served — but  served  Polycrates — 
A  tyrant;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 


12. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend; 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades! 

Oh!  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind! 
Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 


244  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

13. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore, 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown, 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

14. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells: 

In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks, 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells; 

But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud, 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 


Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine; 

But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

16. 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep, 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die: 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine — 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine! 

«  Don  Juan,"  Canto  III.,  1819.] 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON  245 


TO  MR.  MUREAY. 


For  Oxford 

You  gave  much  more  than  me  you  gave; 

Which  is  not  fairly  to  behave, 

My  Murray. 

Because  if  a  live  dog,  't  is  said, 

Be  worth  a  lion  fairly  sped, 

A  live  lord  must  be  worth  two  dead, 

My  Murray. 

And  if,  as  the  opinion  goes, 
Verse  hath  a  better  sale  than  prose, — 
Certes,  I  should  have  more  than  those,3 

My  Murray. 

But  now  this  sheet  is  nearly  cramm'd, 
So,  if  yon  trill,  I  shan't  be  shamm'd, 
And  if  you  won't,  you  may  be  damn'd,4 

My  Murray. 
1821.] 


1  "  Memoirs  of  the  Last  Ten  Years  of  the  Reign  of  George  II.,"  by  Horace  Walpole. 
3  Memoirs  by  James  Earl  Waldegrave. 

3  When  Byron  began  to  write  he  refused  payment ;  later  he  drove  hard  bargains. 

4  Byron  discovered  his  genius  for  satire  only  when  he  took  up  the  stanza  of  "  Don 
Juan."    "The  Vision  of  Judgment,"  written  in  the  same  metre,  gives  in  moderate 
compass  the  best  idea  of  his  mastery  of  the  satiric  vein. 


246  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 


STANZAS   WRITTEN   ON   THE   ROAD   BETWEEN 
FLORENCE  AND  PISA.1 

Oh,  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story; 
The  days  of  our  youth  are  the  days  of  our  glory; 
And  the  myrtle  and  ivy  of  sweet  two-and-twenty 
Are  worth  all  your  laurels,  though  ever  so  plenty. 

What  are  garlands  and  crowns  to  the  brow  that  is  wrinkled? 
'Tis  but  as  a  dead-flower  with  May-dew  besprinkled. 
Then  away  with  all  such  from  the  head  that  is  hoary! 
What  care  I  for  the  wreaths  that  can  only  give  glory? 

Oh,  FAME! — if  I  e'er  took  delight  in  thy  praises, 
'Twas  less  for  the  sake  of  thy  high-sounding  phrases, 
Than  to  see  the  bright  eyes  of  the  dear  one  discover 
The  thought  that  I  was  not  unworthy  to  love  her. 

Time,  chiefly  I  sought  thee,  Mere  only  I  found  thee: 
Her  glance  was  the  best  of  the  rays  that  surround  thee; 
When  it  sparkled  o'er  aught  that  was  bright  in  my  story, 
I  knew  it  was  love,  and  I  felt  it  was  glory. 


1 1  composed  these  stanzas  (except  the  fourth,  added  now)  a  few  days  ago,  on  the 
road  from  Florence  to  Pisa.— Byron's  l:  Diary,"  November  C,  1821. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON  247 


OX  THIS  BAY  I  COMPLETE  MY  THIRTY-SIXTH 
YEAlt.1 

MISSOLONGIII,  January  22,  1824. 

'Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved, 

Since  others  it  hath  ceased  to  move: 
Yet,  though  1  cannot  be  beloved, 
Still  let  me  love! 

My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf; 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone; 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief 
Are  mine  alone! 

The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 

Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle; 

Xo  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze  — 

A  funeral  pile. 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care, 

The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 
And  power  of  love,  I  cannot  share, 
But  wear  the  chain. 


But  'tis  not  //n/.s  —  and  'tis  not  liere  — 

Such  thoughts  should  shake  my  soul,  nor  now, 
Where  glory  decks  the  hero's  bier, 
Or  binds  his  brow. 


1  Byron  wrote  these  stanzas  upon  the  complaiut  of  his  friends  that  he  had  ceased 
to  write  poetry.    They  are  his  last  verses. 


248  SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON 

The  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  field, 
Glory  and  Greece,  around  me  see! 
The  Spartan,  borne  upon  his  shield, 
Was  not  more  free. 

Awake!  (not  Greece — she  is  awake!) 

Awake,  my  spirit!    Think  through  whom 
Thy  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake, 
And  then  strike  home! 

Tread  those  reviving  passions  down, 
Unworthy  manhood! — unto  thee 
Indifferent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be. 

If  thou  regrett'st  thy  youth,  wlnj  live? 

The  land  of  honourable  death 
Is  here: — up  to  the  field,  and  give 
Away  thy  breath! 

Seek  out — less  often  sought  than  found — 

A  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best; 
Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground, 
And  take  thy  rest. 


INDEXES 


INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES 


PAGE 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by 32 

A  glorious  people  vibrated  again 129 

Ah,  what  can  ail  thee,  wretched  wight 192 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights 102 

And  is  this— Yarrow?—  This  the  Stream 52 

An  old,  mad,  blind,  despised,  and  dying  king 1 16 

Arches  on  arches  !  as  it  were  that  Rome 230 

Arethusa  arose 139 

Ariel  to  Miranda.— Take 150 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever 158 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth 165 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field 17 

Bright  star,  would  I  were  stedfast  as  thou  art 194 

But  I  forget. — My  Pilgrim's  shrine  is  won 237 

Charles  !  my  slow  heart  was  only  sad,  when  first 59 

Clear,  placid  Leman  !  thy  contrasted  lake 213 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair 11 

England  !  The  time  has  come  when  thou  should'st  wean 21 

Ethereal  minstrel  !  pilgrim  of  the  sky  ! 55 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam 162 

Five  years  have  past ;  five  summers,  with  the  length 1 

For  Oxford  and  for  Waldegrave 245 

From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen 18 

From  the  forests  and  highlands 1 43 

Glory  and  loveliness  have  pass'd  away 157 

Great  men  have  been  among  us  ;  hands  that  penned 14 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 125 

Hark  !  forth  from  the  abyss  a  voice  proceeds 235 

High  in  the  breathless  Hall  the  Minstrel  sate 40 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers 122 

Inland,  within  a  hollow  vale,  I  stood 13 

251 


252  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

In  Santa  Croce's  holy  precincts  lie 225 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 83 

I  stood  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs 217 

Italia  !  Oh  Italia !  thou  who  hast 22-1 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free 12 

It  is  an  ancient  Mariner 60 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  Flood 15 

It  keeps  eternal  whisperings  around 161 

I  travelled  among  unknown  men 9 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 25 

Life  of  Life  !  thy  lips  enkindle 121 

Milton  !  thou  should'st  be  living  at  this  hour 14 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold 156 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore 208 

My  coursers  are  fed  with  the  lightning 121 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 168 

My  pensive  Sara  !  thy  soft  cheek  reclined 57 

No,  no,  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 176 

Nymph  of  the  downward  smile  and  sidelong  glance 155 

O  blithe  New-comer  !  I  have  heard 22 

O  Goddess  !  hear  these  tuneless  numbers,  wrung 173 

Oh  Rome  !  my  country  !  city  of  the  soul !  228 

Oh,  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story 2-16 

Once  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  east  in  fee 13 

Orphan  hours,  the  year  is  dead 146 

Or  view  the  Lord  of  the  unerring  bow 234 

O  Solitude  !  if  I  must  with  thee  dwell 155 

Our  life  is  twofold  :  Sleep  hath  its  own  world 201 

O,  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being 116 

Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou 147 

Sti  Agnes'  Eve — Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was  ! 177 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulnoss 175 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 8 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 107 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 23 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone lf>7 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God '-f*> 

Swiftly  walk  o'er  the  western  wave 1 49 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold 198 

The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  Power Ill 


INDEX  OF  FIRST   LINES  253 

PAGE 

The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels 21 2 

The  Frost  performs  its  secret  ministry 99 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  (Jreece  ! 241 

The  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night '222 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead 1 57 

There  be  none  of  Beauty's  daughters 199 

There  is  a  bpndage  worse,  far  worse,  to  bear 21 

There  is  a  Tomb  in  Arqua  ; — rear'd  in  air 223 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night 209 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream 33 

The  roar  of  waters  ! — from  the  headlong  height 227 

The  sleepless  Hours  who  watch  me  as  I  lie 142 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear 114 

The  warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  wind  is  wailing 145 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us  :  late  or  soon 31 

Though  the  day  of  my  destiny's  over 199 

Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness 171 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower 10 

'Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved 247 

'Tis  the  middle  of  the  night  by  the  castle  clock 85 

To  the  deep,  to  the  deep 119 

Two  Voices  are  there  ;  one  is  of  the  sea 40 

Up  !  up  !  my  Friend,  and  quit  your  books 7 

Well !  if  the  Bard  was  weatherwise,  who  made 105 

1 '  What,  you  are  stepping  westward  ?  " — ' '  Yea  " 10 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be 16U 

Where  art  thou,  beloved  To-morrow  ? 150 

Where  lies  the  Land  to  which  yon  Ship  must  go  V 32 

Who  is  the  happy  Warrior  V     Who  is  he 28 

Why,  William,  on  that  old  grey  stone 6 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st  the  sky » 3U 

With  sacrifice  before  the  rising  morn 4G 

Ye  Clouds  !  that  far  above  me  float  and  pause 90 


INDEX  OF   POEMS 


SELECTIONS  FROM  WORDSWORTH. 

PAQK 

LIKES  COMPOSED  A  FEW  MILES  ABOVE  TINTERN  ABBEY 1 

EXPOSTULATION  AND  REPLY 6 

THE  TABLES  TURNED 7 

"SHE  DWELT  AMON3  THE  UNTRODDEN  WAYS" 8 

"I  TRAVELLED  AMONG  UNKNOWN  MEN" 9 

"THREE  YEARS  SHE  GREW  IN  SUN  AND  SHOWER" 10 

COMPOSED  UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE,  SEPTEMBER  '6,  1802....  11 

"IT  IS  A  BEAUTEOUS  EVENING.  CALM  AND  FREE" 12 

ON  THE  EXTINCTION  OF  THE  VENETIAN  REPUBLIC 13 

SEPTEMBER,  1802.     NEAR  DOVER 13 

LONDON,  1802 14 

"GREAT  MEN  HAVE  BEEN  AMONG  us;  HANDS  THAT  PENNED" 14 

"IT  IS  NOT  TO  BE  THOUGHT  OF  THAT  THE  FLOOD" 15 

STEPPING  WESTWARD 16 

THE  SOLITARY  REAPER 17 

YARROW  UNVISITED 18 

"ENGLAND  !  THE  TIME  is  COME  WHEN  THOU  SHOULD'ST  WEAN"..  21 

"THERE  is  A  BONDAGE  WORSE,  FAR  WORSE,  TO  BEAR" 21 

To  THE  CUCKOO 22 

"  SHE  WAS  A  PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT  " 23 

THK  DAFFODILS 25 

ODE  TO  DUTY 26 

CHARACTER  OF  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 28 

" WITH  HOW  SAD  STEPS,  O  MOON,  THOU  CLIMB'ST  THE  SKY"...  30 

"THE  WORLD  IS  TOO  MUCH  WITH  US:  LATE  AND  SOON " 31 

"  A  FLOCK  OF  SHEEP  THAT  LEISURELY  PASS  BY " 32 

"  WHERE  LIES  THE  LAND  TO  WHICH  YOX  SHIP  MUST  GO  ?" 32 

ODE  :  INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY 33 

THOUGHT  or  A  BRITON  ON  THE  SUBJUGATION  OF  SWITZERLAND.  40 

SONG  AT  THE  FEAST  OF  BROUGHAM  CASTLE 40 

LAODAMIA 46 

^YARROW  VISITED,  SEPTEMBER,  1814 52 

To  A  SKT-LARK 55 

255 


256  INDEX  OF  POEMS 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COLERIDGE. 

PAGE 

THE  EOLIAN  HARP 57 

SONNET  TO  A  FKIEND 59 

THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 60 

KUBLA  KHAN 83 

CHRISTABEL.     PAKT  1 85 

FRANCE:     ANODE..   96 

FROST  AT  MIDNIGHT 99 

LOVE 102 

DEJECTION  :  AN  ODE .105 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SHELLEY. 

HYMN  TO  INTELLECTUAL  BEAUTY Ill 

STANZAS  WRITTEN  IN  DEJECTION,  NEAR  NAPLES 114 

ENGLAND  IN  1819 116 

ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 116 

LYRICS  FROM  PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 

Song  of  Spirits 119 

Spirit 121 

Hymn  to  Asia 121 

/THE  CLOUD 122 

To  A  SKYLARK 125 

ODE  TO  LIBERTY 129 

^-ARETHUSA 139 

HYMN  OF  APOLLO 142 

HYMN  OF  PAN 143 

AUTUMN  :  A  Dirge 145 

DIRGE  FOR  THE  YEAR 146 

SONG.     "  Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou  " 147 

To  NIGHT 149 

TO-MORROW 150 

WITH  A  GUITAR  ;  TO  JANE 150 


SELECTIONS  FROM   KEATS. 

To  G.  A.  W 155 

To  SOLITUDE 155 

ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN'S  HOMER 156 

/ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET 157 
DEDICATION.     To  Leigh  Hunt,  Esq 157 

THE  OPENING   STANZAS   OF    ENDYMION 158 

SONNET  :  On  the  Sea 161 

SONNET  :  "  When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  ceaae  to  be  " 162 


INDEX  OF  POEMS  257 

SELECTIONS  FROM  KEATS—  Continued. 

TAGE 

FANCY 162 

ODE.     "  Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth  " 165 

LINES  ON  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 107 

ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 168 

ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN 171 

ODE  TO  PSYCHE 173 

.To  AUTUMN 175 

ODE  ON  MELANCHOLY 176 

THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES 1 77 

LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MEHCI 192 

SONNET.     "  Bright  star,  would  I  were  stedfast  as  thou  art " 194 

SELECTIONS  FROM  BYRON. 

"  SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY  " 197 

THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB 198 

STANZAS  FOR  Music 199 

STANZAS  TO  AUGUSTA 199 

THE  DREAM 201 

To  THOMAS  MOORE 208 

CHILDE  HAROLD.    Canto  III.     (Waterloo) 209    — — 

(Drachenfels) 212 

(Lake  Geneva) 213 

Canto  IV.     (Venice) 217  — ^ 

(Sunset  in  the  Rhaetian  Alps). .    222 

(Arqua) 223 

(Italy) 224 

(Santa  Croce) 225 

(Velino) 227 

(Rome) 228 

(The  Coliseum) 230 

(Apollo  Belvedere) 234 

(Dirge  for  the  Princess  Charlotte) 235 

(The  Ocean) 237 

THE  ISLES  OF  GREECE 241 

To  MR.  MURRAY 245 

STANZAS  WRITTEN  ON  THE  ROAD  BETWEEN  FLORENCE  AND  PISA  246 
"ON  THIS  DAY  I  COMPLETE  MY  THIRTY-SIXTH  YEAR" 247  x 


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